


only fools rush in

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Background Relationships, M/M, TWO IDIOTS, canon-typical alcohol/drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” Kent said. Shitty shook his head.</p><p>“No trouble,” he said, and clapped a hand between Kent’s shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only fools rush in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misandrywitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/gifts).



> \+ you can go swimming in lake erie sometimes but the water quality isn't always safe. there's a website where you can check what the water quality is at, which is referenced briefly in this, but i personally would never go swimming in lake erie. the [lehman caves](http://images.summitpost.org/original/320549.jpg) (@ [great basin national park](http://images.nationalgeographic.com/wpf/media-live/photos/000/929/overrides/great-basin-teresa-lake_92936_600x450.jpg)) are real and beautiful and come highly recommended, although you can't actually go in them without a tour guide. 
> 
> \+ i didn't want to tag this for mental health or anything, but kent is a fucked up guy. none of that is really dealt with or addressed in this, but some of his thought-processes are. yknow. rough. i also didn't want to tag this for "semi-public sex" because that seems misleading, but, it's like semi-semi-public sex. idk. lmk if you think that should change.
> 
> \+ happy birthday to my beautiful best friend kent v. parson, a boy whom i love very much. and happy july 4th to sarah, whom i love even more than kvp. hope this makes you smile even a little bit. thank you for being my friend. also thank you for making this prompt "let them kiss!!!!!!!!" because it let me do whatever i wanted, which was this mess. thank you i love you, i'm always going to love you
> 
> \+ this is pretty much irrelevant but i made kent a jays stan because i love them but also i imagine that jack maybe got kent into baseball while they were in rimouski and he still loves them even now :( sad
> 
> \+ kent and shitty smoke weed in this fic. problem? do not email me ever.

 

 "Man, I really love Vegas"  
—Elvis Presley

 

 

 

Kent has never had much to say. He’s a quiet guy—a fact which, for some reason, seems to surprise people. But he’s always been that way: sensitive and contained; observant and shy. His career and his success with it has meant that he’s had to step forward and speak up a bit more than he’s really comfortable with. He doesn’t hate being in the spotlight, but the glare of it hurts his eyes if he’s exposed for too long.

 

And obviously this whole situation happened because of a combination of things, but Kent thinks that must've played a huge part in it. A familiar face in a cold place; a warm smile; someone to talk while Kent listened; a different haircut; a loud laugh; a soft touch in a crowded hour. Something new.

 

That’s not all of it—couldn’t be, not with how quickly normalcy detangles itself from Kent’s life—but the part of it that Kent understands is definitely maybe entirely related to the fact that Shitty’s eyes hold at least half the weight of his smile in them. He takes up space in a room in a way that Kent has never really been able to achieve, and he makes it look easy. He’d thrown back a shot of tequila at the bar beside Kent, and Kent had said, “It’s, uh—actually really nice to see you.”

 

“You sound surprised,” Shitty had said, and smirked at Kent, and when someone had come to tap Kent on the shoulder, Shitty didn’t leave, just leaned against the bar beside him and pressed his upper arm into Kent’s. Barely there but nice anyway, and Kent had maybe been toast right then and there, a total goner.

 

He doesn’t know how he could have dropped the ball so carelessly, doesn’t know how it could have gotten so out of hand without his remembering—he’s small but he’s not that much of a lightweight—and he doesn’t understand how here connects to there, how the better part of three weeks could pass and nothing could happen, and then everything could happen in the time it takes to read his mail. How it could start with a wry smile, a mid-way whisper of, “I’m not—I’m not Jack,” and a whispered answer: “Don’t want you to be,” and how all that could end here, Kent standing in his kitchen, an orange wedge between his teeth and an envelope and a small piece of paper in his hand with the sky falling, the earth opening up. Angels weeping. The end of days.

 

-

 

What happened was this:

 

Kent turned twenty-five in his mom’s house.

 

She asked him what he wanted to do a week before, and he said, “Something small. Family? A barbecue?”

 

And a barbecue is what happened, seven days later, with his sister and her boyfriend and his aunt and uncle and all his cousins. It was fun, easy and simple and the kind of thing he really cares about; family and cold beer and a water-quality rating that meant they could water-ski on the lake.

 

It was the nicest birthday he had in years--at home rather than in Vegas, no Cup party to throw. Lola shoved a cupcake in his face and Pete got it on tape, sent it to Kent to post on Instagram. They took the boat out again to watch the fireworks, and Kent let Pete play Captain, like the good almost-brother-in-law that he was. He sat with his mom in the back of the boat, and when the fireworks started up, she said, “All of that’s for you.”

 

She used to always say it when he was young: _fireworks for your birthday, Kenny._ He smiled at her and let his head rest on her shoulder and was happy, for once, that it wasn’t true.

 

He spent another week there, watched as the media picked up on Jack again, avoided thinking about it too much, went to yoga in the morning and to the gym in the afternoon. And then he flew back to Vegas, because there’s not much else to do—New York is too close to Montreal and it’s too close to Providence and it’s too close to anywhere else Jack could ever choose to be, but Vegas is Vegas, and the whole world seems to fit inside its city limits. Jack has never wanted to be a part of that world, Kent’s world, and so Kent went, because it was easy, and it was what he’d always known.

 

And then Wyatt had called, his voice the same as always through the phone. “Jamie said you’re back in town,” he said, and Kent said, “Yeah,” and that had been that, it seemed, Kent’s time not belonging to himself. Wyatt said, “Let’s go for wings tonight.”

 

“What for?” Kent asked, looking up at the ceiling above his couch.

 

“We missed your birthday, I don’t know, anything, Jame and Zip said it’d be fun. If we bore you, there’s always a show on somewhere.”

 

Kent rolled his eyes. “Wings. Beer. I don’t want to go any place too loud.”

 

“Okay, old man,” Wyatt said. “Eight sound okay?”

 

“Sounds good. Text me where to meet you guys.”

 

It was normal and fine, casual and easy and the same as it always was; they were Kent’s teammates, but they were his friends, too, and the four of them had been together for longer than they probably would have if they were playing anywhere else. They ordered wings just like Kent wanted, and they drank more beer than they really should, and Kent felt himself unwind, the weight of being on the east coast lifting off his shoulders.

 

And then Jamie said, “Let’s go dance,” and Kent groaned, and Wyatt laughed, and Zip said, “C’mon Cap,” and then they ended up in some poorly lit club. Kent wasn’t dressed for it, in plaid and a Jays hat and fucking sandals, but all they had to do is nod at the bouncer, and they got in without waiting.

 

The whole place was glass, blue and purple lights reflecting off of everything, and Kent wanted to leave the second they got inside. Instead, he ordered a bottle of Stella and tried to be a good sport about it all, bought the guys a round of shots and gave his to a pretty, dark haired girl at the bar who smiled at him but kept looking at Zip.

 

And then he turned to look at the door and the lights flashed at just the right time, and there Shitty was, out of context for Kent, who had only ever seen him in Jack’s nasty frat house. Kent couldn’t place him right away, struggled for half a second that felt like an eternity. Shitty hadn’t seen Kent yet, and Kent could slip away, probably, but didn’t know how.

 

Jamie said, “Parser, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” and Kent shook his head. Elbowed Jamie gently and shook his head, and looked away. He smiled at Jamie and Jamie cleared his throat, then said, “Sorry we brought you here, I know you hate this stuff.”

 

“Wyatt said we wouldn’t.”

 

“Is that why you’re dressed like a Women’s Studies major?” Jamie laughed, and Kent snorted. “He’s a fuckin’ liar. Sorry, though.”

 

“S’okay,” Kent said, and then looked around again. Scanned the bar and the edge of the dance floor that he could see and said, “I’m gonna take a leak.”

 

“Don’t bail,” Jamie said, smirking, and Kent gave him the finger before draining his beer and turning away from them. He made his way towards the back, pushed through the people around the bar. He let his shoulders slump forward, watched the floor as much as he could, and no one stopped him. No one recognized him because they didn’t care, or because didn’t know that they should, or because they always thought he’d _be taller in real life, y’know?_

 

As he stepped out of the washroom and back into the hall, he tried to keep his head down again; the corners of clubs always have low lighting but the washroom was florescent, too-bright, bad for pictures and worse for hiding, but it wasn’t enough, because he saw the double take out of the corner of his eye, tried to keep walking but stopped short when Shitty’s Bostonian accent said, “Parson?”

 

And then Kent’s shoulders went back, his chest forward. He held his chin high and smiled the way he always does when someone has a camera in their hand. Except Shitty didn’t want a photo; may have hated Kent for all Kent knew. He’d always been nice to Kent, but things change, and if Kent was going to get a black eye out of it, he wanted to at least see it coming.

 

“Shitty,” Kent said, tone light, and Shitty smiled.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, man. How’s it goin’?”

 

“Not bad,” Kent said. “You?”

 

He shrugged, looked around like he could be in trouble and said, “Family dragged me here. So. As good as one could be, I guess. This shit’s not really my scene.”

 

Kent nodded. “Me neither,” he said, and Shitty tilted his head.

 

“You mean all those Deadspin rumours aren’t true? Whoda thunk.”

 

Kent let out a surprised laugh, and said, “Your hair’s all gone.”

 

“A tragedy for the ages,” Shitty said. “Yours is getting long, though.”

 

“My mom hates it,” Kent said. He looked over his shoulder, back towards the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

 

Shitty smiled. “Please. Anything to escape holding a bunch of purses while all my relatives dance.”

 

“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” Kent said. Shitty shook his head.

 

“No trouble,” he said, and clapped a hand between Kent’s shoulders. “I don’t wanna crash whatever you’re doing, though.”

 

“It’s cool,” Kent said. “Just some guys from the team. If you don’t mind. They’re—well, they’re not horrible.”

 

“Lead the way,” Shitty said, and followed Kent back towards the bar.

 

Shitty has a way with people that Kent has never mastered. Kent had known as much from the first time they’d met, years ago, when Jack was cold to Kent but not tired of him like he seems to be now, and Kent had been grateful for it every time he’s been around Shitty, and this had been no different. He shook hands with Jamie, nodded at Wyatt and Zip. He made small talk with them and ordered a round even though they all make millions and should probably be the ones to pay. Kent hadn’t known much about Shitty outside of the small stuff. Jacks’ winger, not great at hockey but not bad, happy to play it and move on with his life. He studied social sciences, although Kent couldn’t have guessed at what, specifically. But he carried conversation despite the fact that Kent and the rest of them have never known shit about shit, and Kent learned that Shitty was going to law school in the fall, Harvard, and Zip said, “That deserves celebrating,” and Kent had thrown the tequila shot back because it was good manners and because he wanted to, wanted to keep listening to Shitty talk and answer and joke around with Kent’s friends.

 

Wyatt said, “I’m gonna go find a girl and dance,” and Zip went with him, and Jamie looked like he wanted to follow them, so Kent laughed, and said, “Just go, you over-polite Canadian weirdo.”

 

“Sorry,” Jamie said. “Not a great birthday celebration, huh?”

 

“I said it’s fine,” Kent said, rolled his eyes.

 

Shitty said, “I didn’t know it was your birthday. Sorry. Uh—happy birthday.”

 

“It’s not my birthday,” Kent said. “They wanted an excuse to drag me out. Like you said—not really my scene.”

 

“When’s your birthday, then?”

 

“Fourth of July,” Kent said, and Shitty elbowed him.

 

“Captain America, huh?”

 

“You’re really witty,” Kent said, dry. “You go to college or something? With a brain like that—“

 

“Fuck off,” Shitty laughed. “Wanna find a table?”

 

Kent said, “Okay,” because he didn’t know what else to say. “We can get into the VIP if you want.”

 

Shitty shrugged. “If you wanna. It’s—“ he stopped.

 

“It’s what?” Kent asked.

 

“It’s rude, I don’t wanna say it.”

 

“Tell me,” he said.

 

“It’s a bit obnoxious, isn’t it?”

 

Kent smiled, laughed and bit his lip. “It’s a lot obnoxious,” he said, still smiling. “Let me order a pitcher, they can bring it over.”

 

Kent ordered over the bar, and Shitty looked at the bartender and said, “And four tequila shots.”

 

“You goin’ hard, College?”

 

“It’s your late birthday,” Shitty said. “And you might live here, but it’s still Vegas.”

 

Kent said, “When in Rome,” and Shitty laughed.

 

-

 

When Kent woke up, it was because he needed to pee. His black out curtains were doing their job, but the faint light coming through the space between the windows and the wall made the room grey. When he sat up, the room was spinning, and Shitty groaned beside Kent, shifted.

 

“Fuck,” Kent said, because there was dried come on his stomach and he felt like he was going to yak and Shitty was Jack’s friend, and Kent. Wasn’t.

 

Kent made it to his bathroom without falling over, pissed and brushed his teeth and scrubbed his face. When that wasn’t enough, he decided to shower. He pressed his cheek against the cold tile and tried to feel like a person again. When he was done, he wrapped his towel around his waist and hobbled back to bed. Shitty’s eyes were open, glazed over but he was clearly awake, and so Kent sat down on the edge of the bed.

 

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t, uh. I don’t remember a lot.”

 

Shitty groaned. “Me neither, man. Whatever. I mean, you’re okay that we, uh.” He waved a hand at the space between them, and Kent nodded.

 

“I, yeah, Shitty. I mean, don’t like, tell anyone, really, but.”

 

“Of course not,” Shitty said. “That’s none of my business. I just wanted to make sure it was, y’know. Um. Consensual.”

 

“Oh,” Kent said. “Yes. I mean. For you, also? Jesus, I never even—“

 

“No, no, no,” Shitty said. “It’s good. It was good, I think. I remember that being, uh. Good.”

 

“Okay,” Kent said, unsure of how to navigate something this complicated. “I don’t remember much other than—did we do karaoke?”

 

“Fuck,” Shitty said, and laughed. “Maybe? I remember singing Elvis in the cab.”

 

Kent nodded and then stilled, “Please don’t—“

 

“Tell Jack?” Shitty filled in, like it was nothing, like it was obvious. Like it didn’t scare Kent shitless. “Got it, dude, probably wouldn’t either way.”

 

“Okay,” Kent said again, awkward, feeling shy in a way he doesn’t remember feeling last night. “Do you want, like, food? Coffee?”

 

“Sure,” Shitty said. “Can I shower here?”

 

“‘Course,” Kent said.

 

“Thank you,” Shitty said, soft, and Kent wanted to reach out and touch him but didn’t. He rolled over and stood up on the other side of the bed. He wobbled, a bit, and Kent smiled, and watched him walk into Kent’s bathroom, totally naked, and then said, “Shit.”

 

-

 

The comfort of Kent’s life comes because most of the days look the same, and this is, decidedly, not that. It’s not something he knows how to handle. It could be a joke, but he doesn’t know how that would work; wouldn’t a prank have to…make sense? Kent isn’t sure that he knows anyone named Brennan, and it takes him way too long to put that together with the rest of it. Brennan Shane Knight. Certificate of Marriage. Kent Vincent Parson.

 

Kent imagines that probably he should be panicking, but he doesn’t feel much of anything. He feels a bit like when he broke his hand in 2011. He knows he’s not doing what he should, knows it should hurt, be scarier, but he just feels—nothing. He puts the paper down on his kitchen counter and tosses his orange peel towards his sink.

 

He pulls out his phone.

 

_Can u pls send me ur friend shitty’s number_

 

He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t even know if Jack’s phone number is the same. But then his phone vibrates in his hand. “Hello?”

 

“Why do you need Shitty’s number?” Jack asks, sharp and rude as always.

 

“Nice to hear from you, Zimms. How are you? I’m okay. Been better, but you know, same old same, otherwise. How’s Providence?”

 

Kent bites his lip, unsure if Jack will lash out or cave, and then Jack sighs, and Kent can feel the tension fall out of him at the sound. “I’m fine. It’s nice. Pretty quiet. I don’t know. Fine.”

 

“You settling in?” Kent asks, because his mom raised him right. He likes Alicia Zimmermann more than he actually likes Jack, but Jack’s a fuckin’ weirdo, has a poor understanding of common courtesy and normal human behaviour. Kent’s not great with people but he knows how to not be a rude dick.

 

“Yes,” Jack says. “Why do you need Shitty’s number?”

 

“He was here, with his family,” Kent said. “Saw him at a bar. I need to talk him about something.”

 

Jack is quiet on the other end, no doubt wanting to ask about something but not knowing how. “Look,” Kent said. “You can come here anytime, and we can drink beer at some dingy place on the strip if you want, but you and I both know that sounds worse than pulling teeth. Can I please just—“

 

“Okay,” Jack interrupts. “I’ll text it to you.”

 

Kent sighs. “Thank you.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says.

 

“Hey,” Kent says. “It was—nice to hear from you. I—I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. Congrats on signing. The Falconers. Didn’t see that one coming.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. Pauses. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

 

“I guess you will,” Kent says. Jack hangs up before Kent does, which is always how it was when they were kids. Kent doesn’t know why he ever expects things to be any different.

 

His phone buzzes again, and there’s Shitty’s contact information, email and phone number in the palm of Kent’s hand.

 

He hesitates, and then decides to send a text.

 

 _This is Kent Parson,_ he types, proper and slow. _I got your number from Jack, hope that’s ok. Can you please call me when you have the chance._

 

Kent hoists himself up onto the counter, and rests his head against the cupboard with his eyes closed.

 

-

 

“Do you have a fucking STD?”

 

“What?” Kent says into his phone.  “No?”

 

“Well shit,” Shitty says. “What the fuck was I supposed to think, with a text like that. I thought—Jesus I—“

 

“Do _you_ have a STD?” Kent says.

 

“ _No,_ ” Shitty says. “Christ, Parson.”

 

“Call me Kent,” Kent says. “Look,” he says. “There’s—Are you busy? I realize I don’t know shit about you. I know you were just here but can you come out here? I’ll pay.”

 

“Um,” Shitty says. “Sorry, I just. What? I don’t know if I’m following—“

 

Kent pushes his hand into his eyes. “I don’t want to tell you over the phone,” he says, but knows that it’s a lost cause already. “I just got off the phone with my lawyer and—“

 

“What are you _talking_ about?”

 

“When you were here,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath. “Look—are you sitting down? ‘Cause I wasn’t and it’s—“

 

“Kent,” Shitty says, and he sounds panicked, Kent thinks, and he’s not sure how he can tell. None of this is going how Kent was hoping—figures that having an NHLer fly you out to some city on the other side of the continent wouldn’t really appeal to someone who was friends with Jack for four years. Shitty was normal the whole time they hung out, never treated Kent like anything other than a guy that he happened to know. They’d gotten drunk and jerked each other off and eaten breakfast the next morning, and apparently gotten married, which seems like something neither of them should have forgotten and yet—

 

“We’re married,” Kent says.

 

“I—“ Shitty says, then goes quiet. “Elvis,” he says eventually.

 

“What?”

 

“I didn’t remember, I swear to God, I just—we were singing Elvis. You know,” he breathes and then sing-songs, _“Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can’t help fa—_ ”

 

“Oh,” Kent says.

 

“I can,” Shitty says. “Fly out there. You don’t need to pay for it, it’s not like it’s your fault.”

 

“But it’s _your_ fault?” Kent asks.

 

“No, but—money isn’t a problem. I’m in Cape Cod, but I’ll drive to Logan as soon as I pack a bag. I can send you my flight details.”

 

“I’ll pick you up.”

 

“Okay,” Shitty says. “See ya, I guess.”

 

-

 

“So,” Shitty says, looking at nothing. Not looking at the floor but not looking at Kent, either.

 

“So,” Kent parrots, eyes stuck on the freckles that have sprung up across Shitty’s nose. He’s clearly spent the last three weeks in the sun. He’s tanned, and his hair has grown since Kent saw him last.

 

Shitty starts to laugh, and Kent’s eyes go wide. “Sorry,” Shitty says. “This is just—it’s fuckin’ nuts, right?”

 

“It’s not really funny,” Kent says, frowning.

 

Shitty shuts his mouth, nods. “Not really,” he says suddenly severe, and Kent wonders where he learned how to do that. From Jack, maybe. “But, I mean. A little.”

 

Kent rolls his eyes, and does smile in spite of himself. Shitty is charming, which doesn’t bode well for Kent when he, apparently, has to be the serious one. “Look, you’re a lawyer, right? You get this. It’s public record, technically, so it’s—“

 

“Delicate, yeah,” Shitty says. “Sorry. I’m not trying to—“ He shakes his head. He readjusts his bag on his shoulder and says, “Maybe, can we walk? Where’d you park?”

 

“This way,” Kent says, and turns.

 

They walk in silence for a few seconds until Shitty says, “You could’ve waited in the car.”

 

Kent shakes his head. “Nah, c’mon. We’re friends, right? Friends get out of the car.”

 

Kent looks at Shitty out of the corner of his eye, and catches his smile. “Okay,” Shitty says. Then: “I’m not trying to make light of the situation, and I’m not trying to, I don’t know, disrespect your position in it. Obviously I don’t get it. I never meant to—I’m sorry this is happening, if I could take it back, I would. Clearly it’s something that could—have a big impact on you, and I just—“

 

“It’s okay,” Kent says, because he can’t stand the idea of listening to Shitty be so earnest. He’s thoughtful in a way Jack never has been, in a way Kent wasn’t at 18, in a way that he tries his best to hide now. Shitty doesn’t seem to be ashamed of any part of himself, and Kent’s not sure how to handle it. Kent has spent his whole life hiding. Shitty is just…himself, and that’s a bit novel for Kent.

 

They make it to the car, and Kent takes Shitty’s bag, tosses it in the back before climbing into the driver’s seat of his Tesla. “Cool car,” Shitty says.

 

“Thanks,” Kent says, stilted. He pulls out of his stall, and once they’re out on the highway he says, “So. Brennan, huh?”

 

“Shit,” Shitty says, then laughs, and Kent laughs too and, oddly, feels a bit better.

 

-

 

Kent unlocks the door to his apartment and motions for Shitty to step inside. “Do you remember where everything is?” Shitty nods, and sets his bag down at the door. “Good,” Kent says. “Feel free to help yourself to anything.” He tosses his keys onto the counter and moves towards the fridge. “What’s mine is, y’know, half yours now.”

 

Shitty laughs, and says, “Are we at the point where we can joke about being married?”

 

Kent rubs his hand over his face and says, “I don’t know, Christ.”

 

“Okay.” Shitty claps his hands together. “Let’s see this bad boy.”

 

Kent rifles through the stack of bills and envelopes that he’s had sitting on his counter for the last four days, and pulls the manila envelope out of the pile. He hands it over to Shitty with clammy hands. He taps his finger on the countertop and then makes a fist to stop himself. Shitty slides the thick paper out of the envelope and looks down at it for a long moment, and Kent can feel his cheeks going pink. It’s all embarrassing, and mortifying and scary and a million other things, and Kent sees his life flash before his eyes, and then Shitty whistles, low.

 

“This sure is…something,” he says, slow. “I—sorry,” he says, stops. “I just. I never thought I’d get married. It’s a construct, it’s antiquated and sexist and pretty pointless, other than taxes or whatever.”

 

Kent has always wanted to have a simple life; wanted to marry Jack when they were 18 and in love and stupid with it; got Kit when he realized that he couldn’t fill his house with a bunch of kids, his bed with a husband, until after he retired, if then. He’s not sure if he’s ever going to be ready to come out, doesn’t know how to go about it, how to step around it, doesn’t know how to move on with his life without acknowledging the block that is in his road.

 

And now—

 

“We were fucking wasted,” Kent says. “It doesn’t have to be political.”

 

Shitty cocks an eyebrow at Kent. “Not…political…Kent. You do know that you’re a professional athlete in a league with no openly queer athletes. And that you’re, you know, technically in a gay marriage.”

 

Kent rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Tips. I meant for you. My lawyer and agent are talking right now, they said they’d conference call us in around four.” Kent shifts from foot to foot and then says, “Look, we’ll do what they say is best, but I imagine they’ll just tell us to annul it, or whatever, I don’t know.”

 

“Okay,” Shitty says. “Can I ask you, did you uh, tell your family? Or anyone?”

 

“Christ, no,” Kent says. “And give them a collective heart attack? No.”

 

“Okay,” Shitty says. “Me neither, _obviously_ , but. Okay.”

 

“Lunch?” Kent asks, because there’s nothing to do but move forward, act normal until it can be normal again. It’s not a flawless coping mechanism, but it’s better than nothing, and there’s a Jays game on.

 

“Cool, sure, yeah,” Shitty says. “I can help.”

 

They make sandwiches with what Kent has in his fridge, which admittedly isn’t much, and Kent asks, “You want a beer? There’s a ball game on.”

 

“Thank you,” Shitty nods, and Kent grabs two bottles from the fridge before moving to the living room. He sets his food on the coffee table, and finds the game before sitting back.

 

“Who’re we cheering for?” Shitty asks after a few minutes.

 

“Toronto,” Kent says, and takes a too-big bite of his sandwich.

 

“Figured you’d be, I don’t know, a Yankees fan or something.”

 

“Why, you a Red Sox fan?”

 

“Football family,” Shitty says. “Other than hockey. My dad couldn’t give a shit about baseball. Would probably say something rather tasteless about it, actually.”

 

“My sister played second base into her second year of college,” Kent says, for a lack of something better. He’s trying to concentrate on the game, but can’t focus, is all too aware of how fucked up this is, pretending like it’s not ass-backwards to be sitting on the couch in the middle of the day on a Friday with his ex-boyfriend’s best-friend, a guy he happened to sleep with and then marry in a drunken haze. He can’t stop noticing the way Shitty’s shoulder is almost-but-not-quite touching his own, the way Shitty has one ankle crossed over the other, his feet propped on Kent’s coffee table.

 

“How old is she?”

 

“Twenty-two,” Kent says. “Just graduated. English and Education.”

 

“That’s awesome,” Shitty says. “I love teachers.”

 

“Yeah,” Kent says, because he never really went to school, at least not the way Shitty and Jack and Lola did.

 

Shitty says, “Jack follows the Jays,” and it’s unassuming but it’s still a prompt.

 

“I know,” Kent says, because he does. “He convinced me to root for them when we were in Rimouski. Stuck, I guess.”

 

-

 

When his phone rings, he’s expecting it, but his stomach still gets tight. He mutes the TV and says, “That’s my agent.”

 

He swipes his finger across his phone to answer and then says, “Hey Pat.” He pulls his phone back and puts it on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”

 

“Alright,” Pat says. “Dave’s on the line too.”

 

“Hi Kent,” Dave’s voice comes, and Kent mouths “ _Lawyer_ ” to Shitty.

 

“Hey,” Kent says. “Uh, Brennan Knight is here, too.”

 

“Mister Knight, hello,” Pat says.

 

“Hi,” Shitty says. “That was a lot of pleasantries,” he laughs, and Kent would appreciate the attempt to cut through the tension if he weren’t scared shitless of what they were about to say.

 

“ _Guys_ ,” Kent whines.

 

“I’ll cut to the chase, then,” Pat says, and Kent grips his hand around his knee, squeezes hard. “Kent, listen,” he says, slow, and Kent knows that means trouble. “We want you to know that there are options, moving forward, and that you should take the time to not only think about this yourself, but discuss it between the two of you—“

 

“We’re adults,” Shitty says. “We understand. Thank you, but we are both aware of the complexity of the situation.”

 

“Understood, my apologies, Mister Knight.” Shitty flashes a smile at Kent, and it’s small and secretive. Kent bites his lip.

 

“You have a few options,” Dave says. “One: Annulment, like we discussed yesterday.”

 

“That’s what we want to do,” Kent says.

 

“Alright, but first you should know the complications around that. Your marriage is, technically, public record. If anyone knew to look, they could find any copy of both your marriage certificate and/or your annulment request. As of right now, that first record is buried under three weeks of similar records, so to speak. But that new one would be on top, and that’s something you need to be ready for—that you could annul your marriage now, and it could be fine, and no one would ever know, or that people could find out anyway.”

 

Kent shuts his eyes, and breathes. “What were the other options?”

 

“You could still annul, but wait until the season starts. People wouldn’t be digging around for your name in an attempt to make news. There’d be real hockey to talk about.”

 

“Or?” Kent asks, and some of his stress must be in his voice, because Shitty covers Kent’s hand with his own and squeezes gently before prying Kent’s fingers away from his knee and holding Kent’s smaller hand between his two massive ones.

 

“Or, you could stay married. Come out, as it would likely be…less…scandalous if it looked like you were happily married.”

 

“No,” Kent says just as Shitty says, “That’s disingenuous.”

 

“I’m not comfortable with that,” Kent says.

 

“That’s what we thought,” Dave says.

 

“Which is why,” Pat continues, “we want to suggest you wait until the start of the season. After that, it’s up to you on how to move forward, but that would, at the very least, make it more likely that you’ll be able to slip under the media’s radar.”

 

Shitty taps his finger on the back of Kent’s hand, and Kent lifts his chin to look at him. He makes a bunch of vague hand movements and shrugs, and Kent’s not really sure what he means by it all, but Kent says, “Okay.”

 

“Do you need to talk about it between the two of you?” Dan asks, ever the diplomat.

 

“No,” Shitty supplies, and Kent is grateful. It’s complicated, and they don’t know each other, not really, and Kent doesn’t want to—He doesn’t want to step on toes or hurt feelings or _whatever_. But Shitty just smiles at Kent, and Kent has to force a tight-lipped smile in response.

 

“You let us know if anything changes,” Pat says, and Shitty rolls his eyes. Kent bites at his lip, and a smile spreads out across Shitty’s face.

 

“Sure thing,” Kent says. “Thank you for your quick work and discretion.”

 

“It’s what you pay us for, kiddo,” Pat says, and then: “Take care. Keep your head down. Maybe post a bit more on your social media. Stay outta trouble.”

 

Kent snorts, but concedes, and they say their goodbyes. When the line goes dead, Kent sighs. He leans back against the back of the couch, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 

“Hey,” Shitty says, his hand on Kent’s knee. Kent lifts his left hand and opens one eye to look at Shitty. The side of Shitty’s mouth turns up, and he says, “At least it’s done. You did everything you could—at least for now. Might as well, I don’t know, relax?”

 

Kent sighs again, and knows that Shitty is right. It’s pretty much out of his hands until October. He made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

 

“You want to finish watching the game?” Shitty asks.

 

Kent nods, and Shitty says, “Awesome, I’ll grab us more beer.”

 

-

 

Pat calls back the next morning, because Kent can’t catch a break, apparently. “We have a plan,” he says into Kent’s ear.

 

“It’s seven in the morning,” Kent mumbles, eyes still closed.

 

“You finally learned how to tell time,” Pat says, sardonic. “Congrats.”

 

“Fuck off,” Kent says . “What kind of plan?”

 

“Just in case it leaks,” he says. “Just in case someone pulls up public records. I got you meet and greet tickets to a show for tonight, but mostly we just want you and _your husband_ to take as many photos as possible, spread them out between social medias, etcetera. That way, if anyone does find out, it will at least look a bit more legitimate. Like you actually know each other.”

 

Kent groans and says, “One second.” He gets out of bed, disturbing Kit, and she gives him the same look she always gives him, like she’s tired of his shit. He shuffles down the hall to his guest bedroom and knocks on the door before saying, “Shitty?” into the room.

 

Shitty makes a noise from under the duvet, and he sounds as annoyed about being woken up as Kent feels, so Kent says, “Sorry, I just--Pat’s on the phone. My agent.”

 

Shitty raises his arm and waves Kent into the room, and then lifts the duvet on the left side of bed. Kent slides under and says into the phone, “You wanna talk to Brennan? He’s right here.”

 

Kent hands the phone to Shitty, who mumbles a soft, “Hello?” His voice is deeper than normal, rough with sleep and all too endearing. Kent wants to push his face into Shitty’s shoulder, into the back of his neck.

 

He likes Shitty’s hair short, likes the way it pulls a focus to his bone structure. He’s a handsome guy, and Kent even likes the moustache, which he’s never been a fan of in theory. Still, there’s something about the way Shitty’s hair is rumpled with sleep and sticking up on the side that makes Kent remember his longer hair. Kent’s never known him without a mop on his head, and while Shitty looks _hot_ with his hair cropped, it’s clear to Kent that it has less character this way.

 

Shitty says, “I could make an instagram account, if you want. That might be a bit...suspect, don’t you think?”

 

Kent shifts onto his side and watches Shitty talk to Pat. Shitty shifts so that they’re facing each other and he rolls his eyes at something Pat says. Kent smiles, close lipped, and tucks his hands under his cheek.

 

“Sure,” Shitty says, and then a pause before, “Yeah, okay. Sounds fun. Cool. You want to talk to Kent again? Oh, okay. Sure. Bye.”

 

Shitty pulls Kent’s phone away from his ear and looks at the screen before handing it back to Kent. “He said he’s going to email you e-tickets for tonight. Says between the two of us, we need at least one photo every couple of days. Says group photos work too.”

 

“Okay,” Kent says. “Sorry for waking you up.”

 

“S’okay,” Shitty says, and then smiles softly at Kent before nudging Kent’s leg with his own. “Wanna fool around?” He asks, and wiggles his eyebrows.

 

Kent snorts a laugh, but then shrugs. “You’re embarrassing,” he says, and it sounds much too fond, even to his own ears.

 

“That’s not a no,” Shitty says, moving closer to Kent.

 

“Guess it’s not,” Kent says, and Shitty laughs. Kent kisses him quiet.

 

-

 

Shitty is still full of nervous energy as they leave the show, keyed up and chattering. “I can’t believe we met her,” he says, grabbing Kent’s arm and shaking him. Kent smiles, shakes Shitty’s hand off his arm and knocks their shoulders together.

 

“She’s so cool,” Kent says, genuine. He bites his lip when he thinks about the soft way she’d greeted him. “I’ll text you the photos when we get back to the car.”

 

“God,” Shitty says, at nothing. “I just—she’s so fucking cool? She was so nice.”

 

Kent rubs at the back of his neck and smiles. It’s not a cool night by any means, but the sun’s been down for at least an hour and a bit, and because they stuck around after the show, there’s no crowd except for the stragglers, people walking this part of the strip on their way back to their hotels or to the casino or another show. For drinks or for dancing or both. Shitty says, “That was--Can you believe she took selfies with us?”

 

Kent starts laughing, and says, “Christ, I know. I can’t believe she—she knows who I am. That’s. Fuckin’ nuts, you know?”

 

They get to Kent’s car and Shitty settles into the passenger seat. He asks, “What’s your favourite album?”

 

“ _Britney_ ,” Kent says. “Obviously.”

 

“Good man,” Shitty says, and plugs his phone into Kent’s AUX cord. “I also would have accepted _In the Zone_.”

 

Kent hands his phone to Shitty before turning on the car. “Send yourself the pictures if you want,” he says.

 

He pulls into the street and Shitty taps on Kent’s phone. He says, “Thanks,” and then reaches for the volume control. “You know the words to this?” He asks. Kent smiles and nods.

 

He blushes and says, “Yes.”

 

“ _You might think that I won’t make it on my own,_ ” Shitty sings, and Kent laughs, but joins in for the chorus, laughing until he’s not, until they’re both just belting Britney into Kent’s car. Shitty has a nice voice, actually, and Kent keeps glancing away from the road to watch the side of his face.

 

Kent’s stomach feels light, and he bites back a smile. He’s not sure how long Shitty is going to stay, what’s going to happen. But he’s not sure he has to care about that, right now. It’s nice to just—have someone. Someone to do this around, be weird and nerdy and not care what anyone thinks. Shitty isn’t a teammate, not someone who looks up to him and relies on him, and he’s not someone he met because of who he is. He’s just a friend of a friend, or whatever Jack is to Kent, but that changes _something_ about the way he feels around Shitty. He’s not self-conscious, and he doesn’t really care what Shitty thinks of him so long as he doesn’t want Kent to be something he’s not. And so far, Kent doesn’t think that’s the case.

 

He’s not sure if he’s ever had anyone like that in his life—not his adult life, anyway—and it takes him too long to realize that he’s _happy._ They’re in an absurd situation, something out of a nightmare or a bad romantic comedy, but they’re dealing with it, laughing and spending time together in an easy, simple, friendly way.

 

When they pull into Kent’s underground parking, Shitty turns down the stereo.

 

“Look,” he says, holding Kent’s phone up for him. “She started following your Instagram.”

 

“Fuck,” Kent says, a small laugh escaping him.

 

“Honestly,” Shitty says as they move towards the elevator. “How do people not know you’re gay?”

 

“Fuck if I know,” Kent says. He pushes the button for his floor, rests his head against the back of the elevator. “I never wanted to, I don’t know. Make a fucking statement. I’m a person. It’s who I am, right? It’s not anyone’s business.”

 

“Of course not,” Shitty says, knocking their shoulders together softly, leaning into Kent and staying. “You don’t owe them anything. I just mean. I don’t know, you know all the words to _Stronger_ and you’re—” Kent opens his eyes and side-eyes Shitty. He blushes and stutters, “Not like that, I don’t know! Just, you’re a normal person, right? But Britney Spears calls you ‘honey’ and.” He huffs.

 

The doors open and Kent rolls his eyes. “You don’t think it’s just obvious to you because you’ve had your dick in my mouth?”

 

Shitty laughs and shoves at Kent’s shoulder.

 

-

 

Kent gets out of the shower the next morning and finds Shitty standing in front of the stove. His hair is sticking up, and he’s got glasses perched on his nose. He’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and Kent _shouldn’t_ be having a reaction to it but is.

 

“Whatcha makin’?” He asks, and Shitty looks over his shoulder at him.

 

“Eggs,” he says. “I was gonna do sunny-side up but I broke the yolk on one, so they’re all scrambled now.”

 

Kent touches his back as he passes him even though he couldn’t say why. He opens the fridge and says, “It smells good either way.” He grabs milk from the fridge and slides it onto the counter. Shitty’s already made coffee, so Kent pours himself a mug from the French press, adds milk before putting it back in the fridge.

 

Shitty splits the eggs onto two plates and Kent says, “Thank you.” They eat leaning up against the counter. When Kent finishes his food, he drops his plate into the sink.

 

“You have anything you have to do today?” Shitty asks.

 

Kent shrugs. “Go the gym? Otherwise nothing else.”

 

“Cool,” Shitty says. “And then you’ve got nothing at all tomorrow, right?”

 

“Right,” Kent nods. “Why?”

 

“I was uh,” Shitty looks away. “I was wondering if you’d wanna go to the caves or something? I wanted to when I was here last time but didn’t get to.”

 

“Did you want to do Red Rock? Or Lehman?”

 

Shitty says, “I can look into it? Doesn’t matter, I don’t think. Just seems like,” he shrugs again. “Seems like it’s worth doing. If you want to?”

 

“That sounds awesome to me,” he says. “I gotta get ready to go, but I can text you when I’m on my way back, we can figure out dinner?”

 

Shitty nods, and Kent scrambles to get dressed, resists the urge to, like, kiss Shitty’s mouth on the way out the door. He shoves his feet into his shoes, stands on the backs of them and shouts, “See ya,” into the apartment. He goes before Shitty responds, but that’s okay.

 

-

 

“So,” Wyatt says. “You went to Britney last night? Where was my invite?”

 

“You didn’t have one,” Kent says, smirking, and Wyatt rolls his eyes.

 

“You have fun?” Wyatt asks, and Kent nods as he shoves his gym bag into his locker. He tucks his water bottle under his arm and follows Wyatt out of the change room.

 

“Was awesome,” he says. “She met us after the show and stuff. I was surprised, actually. I thought she’d be taller.”

 

Wyatt laughs. “You go with a chick or something?”

 

Kent shakes his head. “Uh, no, you remember my buddy from Boston?”

 

“He’s still here?” Wyatt asks. “That’s fun. How long’s he staying?”

 

“Boys,” Pleckny says, and Kent immediately feels like a school kid being called on in class.

 

“Afternoon, boss,” Kent says, tossing his water bottle and phone down beside where Wyatt’s dropping his own stuff.

 

“Because neither of you are coming in tomorrow,” Pleckny says, “you’re going to work even harder today.”

 

“Fuck,” Wyatt mumbles, and Kent laughs. He salutes Pleckny, and Wyatt calls him a suck-up under his breath, and then they get to work.

 

-

 

“Shitty,” Kent calls into the apartment. He collapses down on the couch face first and waits a few seconds. When he doesn’t hear anything, he lifts his face from where it’s pressed into the cushions and says, “Shits?”

 

When he gets no response, he forces himself to sit up and pull his phone out of his pocket. _Where u at?_ He sends.

 

 _Roof,_ Shitty says. _By the pool :)_

 

Kent heaves himself off the couch—he’s sweaty, and was going to shower, but he could float in the pool for a bit. That’d be nice too. He changes into his swim trunks while Kit eyes him from her spot on his bed. He says, “What?” and she doesn’t even lift her head. He says, “Whatever,” and leaves his phone on his bedside table. He grabs a towel from the linen closet and heads up to the roof with his keys around his finger, his sunglasses on his head.

 

He finds Shitty lounging on a deck chair, a book held high above his head. Kent tosses his towel over it, and it covers Shitty’s book and his face. “Ah,” he says. “Finally, some shade.”

 

Kent snorts but doesn’t say anything else, just kicks off his shoes and drops his stuff onto the little table that has Shitty’s phone and water bottle sitting on it.

 

It’s hot on the roof, but when he jumps into the pool he feels instantly better. Pleckny is a good trainer but he works Kent hard, and he’s feeling it already. He blinks under the water, looks at his own hands, blurry in front of his face. He feels the tension bleed out of his body, and exhales bubbles before pushing back to the surface of the pool. He shakes his hair out and swims to rest on the pool’s edge. He folds his elbows on the cement and settles his chin down onto his arms. Lets his legs hang in the water. He watches Shitty read for a few minutes before he drops his book and says, “Why’re you staring at me like that?”

 

“Come in the pool,” Kent says.

 

Shitty huffs, but he dog ears the page he was on and comes to sit at the pools edge, letting his feet drop into the water beside where Kent is resting. Kent drops back into the pool, swims backwards and over until he’s in front of Shitty. He grabs at his ankles under the water and whines, “Come in for real.”

 

Shitty juts his chin out, and Kent lets go to make space for him. He drops himself into the pool smoothly, breaks the surface just in front of Kent. “Hi,” Kent says, smiling.

 

Shitty’s hair is smoothed back from the water, and Kent watches the heavier drops of water drop off his eyelashes. “How was training?” Shitty asks.

 

“Good,” Kent says. “Tough.” He kicks himself backwards in the water, moves to where it’s slightly less deep, smiles when Shitty follows him. Shitty’s a good bit taller than Kent, and he can stand before Kent can. When he can see that Shitty’s feet are solidly planted, he moves back in towards him, crowds him just enough to lose any illusion of subtlety.

 

Shitty chuckles softly, as if to himself, and he says, “What’s this about?”

 

“You don’t know?” Kent blinks up at him. “There’s no one around,” he says, reaching his hand out to touch Shitty’s side under the water. “Plus, we’re married now.”

 

“I guess we are,” Shitty says, his smile lopsided.

 

“Your tan looks good,” Kent says, surprising himself. “You’ve got freckles. I didn’t know.”

 

“So do you,” Shitty says, and Kent guesses that’s fair. There’s no way either of them could really have known that about each other. There are so many things Kent doesn’t know about Shitty, so many things Shitty doesn’t know about him.

 

But there’s also this: that they’re flirting in Kent’s pool, touching in a way that makes Kent feel it just as much in all the places they aren’t, the water cool between them but not really an obstacle. Kent may not know much of anything about Shitty, but he has a chance to learn some small things. Kent bites at his bottom lip and Shitty touches his hand to Kent’s shoulder. Kent opens his mouth to say something, anything, when Shitty shoves him under the water, hard.

 

Kent flails his hands and tugs at where his hands were at Shitty’s hips until he gets pulled under the water too. They struggle against each other for a few seconds until Kent comes up to breathe. Shitty laughs, and Kent says, “Dick,” under his breath. Shitty keeps laughing, but pulls Kent into him, until they’re all bare skin on bare skin, Kent’s shoulder tight against Shitty’s chest.

 

He’s thinner than Kent, more gangly than strictly built; he’s lean, but still strong. Kent turns slightly in his grip so that they’re chest to chest, and Kent’s heart pounds in his chest. “This is okay?” Shitty asks, and Kent lets the bottom half of his face drop below the surface of the water before nodding. Shitty tugs at him where his hands are secured around Kent’s hips and Kent moves with it, lets Shitty pull him up and that little bit closer until he’s forced to wrap his legs around Shitty’s waist under the water. When they’re face to face, Kent spits his mouthful of pool water at Shitty, and Shitty sputters.

 

“You’re disgusting,” Shitty says, and Kent laughs before he moves in closer, until they’re nose to nose.

 

He presses his hands to the soft skin between Shitty’s shoulders and says, “You like it,” before he presses his lips against Shitty’s.

 

Kent has never had anyone up here, tries to avoid inviting anyone up to his apartment if they’re just going to fuck and go their separate ways. He hasn’t had anyone to share his life with, ever, unless he considers to count Jack in that, which he maybe would have before now. Before he was making out with Shitty Knight in his rooftop pool.

 

But this is different than that, and Kent knows it. It’s convenient, and he gets that that’s what this is. They’re two people who get along, who are in a complicated situation together, who are attracted to each other. Why deny it? Kent likes being wrapped around Shitty, likes his moustache and the way his huge hands fit against Kent’s ribs.

 

The contrast of it all is a lot, and Kent gets wrapped up in the way it feels. The chill of the pool water and the wind, the heat from the sun, the hard press of Shitty’s body against his own. Shitty’s lips are softer than Kent thought, softer than he remembers from that first time. He’s a good kisser, and Kent gets lost in it easily.

 

Shitty squeezes Kent’s ass and Kent moans into his mouth.

 

“Can we do this in the pool?” Kent asks against Shitty’s mouth.

 

He presses their cheeks together to catch his breath, and Shitty says, “It’s not _my_ pool.”

 

Kent laughs against him, and Shitty runs his fingers at the curls at the nape of Kent’s neck, tugs on them gently. “Probably a bad idea,” Kent says eventually. Anyone who lives in the building could come up here any time. His neighbours, for the most part, are discreet and couldn’t give a shit about who he is, but it’s still a risk. People have friends, and it’s the middle of the summer, a nice evening. He’s surprised there’s no one here now. He drops his legs down from around Shitty’s waist, and Shitty steps away from him. Shitty’s cheeks are flushed high, and Kent sighs and then smiles.

 

“You wanna go get dinner?” Kent asks.

 

“Ice cream after?” Shitty adds, and Kent smiles.

 

-

 

Later, they’re in the line-up for the most pretentious, hipster ice cream ever. Shitty had googled it, and apparently it’s the best in the city, and it’s not that Kent doesn’t believe him, it’s just that it all seems—kind of gross, if he’s being honest.

 

“Balsamic vinegar and strawberries?” Kent says, skeptical. “What the fuck.”

 

Shitty laughs. “Lighten up.” He elbows Kent, teasing. “Try a sample if you want.”

 

“Fuck no,” Kent says. Then, “What’re you gonna get?”

 

“I’m gonna sample the coconut chocolate one,” he says, pointing to the chalkboard on the opposite wall. In front of them, three college aged girls are getting their own samples. “Maybe the pistachio? I don’t know. They all sounds wild.”

 

Kent stares at the list until an employee comes over to them. “Has anyone offered you guys samples yet?”

 

Kent shakes his head. “Not yet,” Shitty says. “Any recommendations?”

 

“Honestly,” she says, “I do really just like the traditional vanilla, but almost everything’s great. Depends on your taste buds.”

 

“He wants to try the balsamic one,” Shitty says, nudging Kent with his shoulder. “Right?”

 

“Uh,” Kent says, because he doesn’t really want to. Not at all, actually, but he can humour Shitty. “Sure. Can I also try the lavender-honey one? Please.”

 

“Sure thing,” she says. Shitty asks to try to coconut chocolate and the pistachio, but when they get to the front to order, he orders a cone with one scoop of vanilla and one scoop of blueberry. Kent raises his eyebrows at him, and orders a bowl with a single scoop of the lavender.

 

Shitty hands over a ten-dollar bill to cover them both, and Kent thanks him. Shitty shrugs him off and asks, “What’s yours taste like?”

 

Kent shrugs. “Lavender, I guess? Try it.” He holds his spoon out, and Shitty’s cheeks flush before he bends to take the offered spoonful.

 

“’s good,” he says.

 

They make the walk back to Kent’s house, and mostly talk about what Shitty’s classes are going to be like in the fall. “Are you happy with what you’re doing?” Kent asks, eventually.

 

“How do you mean?” Shitty asks. Their arms keep brushing as they walk, and Shitty has a little bit of ice cream in his moustache. Kent shrugs.

 

“I don’t know, I kind of. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if I’d gone to school.”

 

Shitty is quiet for a few minutes and then he says, slow and quiet, “You’re not Jack, Kent.”

 

Kent says, “Neither are you,” and then huffs. “I just mean. I don’t know. I’m not good at anything other than hockey. But you’re—you’re smart, you know stuff and you’re going to, like, the best school in the world, to keep learning things.”

 

“You’re _smart_ ,” Shitty says. “First of all, don’t think people don’t notice you silently noticing shit all the time. You might never say anything, but you’re clearly perceptive as hell. You’re always paying attention to everyone, all the time. It makes you a great player, and you’re smart on the ice, but I’m sure it makes you a great captain, too.”

 

“I didn’t—“ He starts, but Shitty interrupts him.

 

“Second of all,” he says. He stops walking and turns Kent so that they’re face to face. His voice drops, like he’s less upset about Kent being a self-pitying piece of shit and more like he wants to help Kent, which is just plain stupid. “You can always study, like, online if you want. What would you study, if you were in school?”

 

“Christ, I don’t know. I mostly meant that I missed out, on like, a fundamental part of being a millennial or whatever.”

 

“You have a Cup ring, Kent,” Shitty says, deadpan.

 

“I _know_ ,” he whines. “Nevermind.” He starts to walk again, and Shitty huffs and jogs to catch up with him.

 

“Don’t be mad. C’mon. I can explain it to you if you want. Look—it’s not like it’s all frat parties and growing out your hair and living with your friends. It’s—it’s really hard. It’s the hardest thing I ever did for the least amount of pay off. It costs thousands and thousands of dollars, and all it did was give me a piece of paper that let me spend even more money to work even harder for another piece of paper. And living with your friends sucks because sometimes you hate them, and you can’t escape them, and it’s really, really hard.”

 

Kent sighs, and Shitty says, “I would never, ever in a million years be good enough at hockey to play like you do. I got to play with Jack because he made a lot of mistakes, not because he knew who he was any better or worse than you. We all take a different path to get to where we’re goin’.”

 

Kent nods. “I know that you’re right,” he says. He tosses his empty ice cream cup into a garbage bin at the corner, and they wait for the light to change before crossing. “It’s just hard to feel it, all the time. And it’s stupid, because I _like_ my life. I miss my family a lot, but it’s—other than that, it’s not bad. I guess it’s easy to lose touch of what’s really important? I don’t know.”

 

“Well,” Shitty says, and then smiles. “What’s really important to you?”

 

Kent looks down, wishes he still had his empty ice cream cup so he’d have something to do with his hands. “It feels embarrassing,” he says, softly.

 

“Oh my God,” Shitty says, cajolingly. “You can tell me. Dude.”

 

“My mom, my sister.” He doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s so easy—with the money and the fame and how fast everything has moved for him—to get lost in the flash of it all. But his mom and Lola, they’re as much a part of him as he is a part of them, and while they don’t know everything about him, they know most of it, and they see him and they love him and they’re not going to ever leave him. They keep him honest, and he’s never going to be able to let go of how important that is.

 

“Okay,” Shitty says. “See, that’s great. I don’t have that with my family. Kinda hate them, actually.”

 

“Really?” Kent asks. He knows families are complicated, that they come in all shapes and sizes, but even Jack doesn’t _hate_ his parents.

 

Shitty makes a twist with his mouth. “My parents weren’t nice to each other. Sometimes it’s hard to see them outside of how they are to each other, how they are to other people. I can’t be the only one to make an effort. They had me, y’know? But I guess I kind of always thought they resented me for being in the way.”

 

“No one asks to be born,” Kent says, soft.

 

“Anyway,” Shitty says, dragging it out, clearly trying to reclaim the conversation, lighten the mood. “Life’s not all beer and skittles. Everyone has something that makes them feel like they’re burning from both ends.”

 

The doorman at Kent’s building opens the door for them, and says, “Evening, Mister Parson.”

 

“Hey, Kev,” Kent says. “Shift goin’ okay?” He motions for Shitty to go inside, and Kevin nods, and Kent smiles. “Have a good rest of your night, man,” he says.

 

“You too, Mister Parson.”

 

They get into the elevator. “Mister Parson,” Shitty says, and smirks before hitting the button for Kent’s floor.

 

“Whatever,” Kent says, rolling his eyes. “ _Brennan_.”

 

When they get inside the front door, Shitty leaves his shoes at the door, and Kent tosses his keys onto the island. When he turns around, Shitty is standing in front of him. “If you call me Brannan while we’re fooling around, I’ll seriously never blow you ever again.”

 

“Whatever you say, Brennan,” Kent says, smirking, and steps just that little bit closer. He raises his hands and rests them on Shitty’s sides. Shitty tugs at the curls at the back of Kent’s neck, and Kent leans into his hand.

 

“Were you not listening to what I just said?”

 

“We’re technically not doing anything right now,” Kent says.

 

“Smart ass,” Shitty says, and then closes the gap between their mouths.

 

It’s different than earlier. Kent’s skin had been itching in the pool, and he had wanted to get off and do fuck all else, but now there’s something else to it. It’s not soft, is still desperate and heady like it had been in the afternoon. But there’s an eventuality to it, now. They could have rubbed off and ordered a pizza or something, but instead they went out, walked around, talked and flirted. Kent didn’t get recognized once the entire time.

 

They make out for a long time like that, Shitty pressing Kent back into the counter of his kitchen island, and when they have to pull apart to breathe, Kent says, “Bedroom, c’mon.”

 

Shitty follows him into his bedroom, and Kent tosses his hat towards the chair he has in the corner of the room. He pulls his t-shirt over his head and turns to sit on the edge of his bed. “C’mere,” he says, and wiggles his fingers at Shitty.

 

Shitty smiles and goes. “This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” Shitty asks as Kent is pushing his fingers up under the cotton of Shitty’s t-shirt.

 

“Why?” Kent asks.

 

“I don’t know, I’ve never uh. Never slept with a dude when I wasn’t at least a little drunk.”

 

Kent’s hands still. “Oh,” he says, and starts to pull back.

 

“No, no, not like that,” Shitty says, grabbing Kent’s hands with his own. He places them back under his t-shirt, holds Kent’s hands down against his own stomach. “I’m just nervous, I guess.”

 

“That’s okay,” Kent says. “I might be able to help.” He smiles up at Shitty, close-lipped. He slides his hands around to Shitty’s back, dips his fingers under the waistband of his briefs.

 

“That’s good,” Shitty says, and exhales heavily. Kent moves his fingers to the loops of Shitty’s jeans, and pulls on them just enough to get Shitty to step that little bit closer. He looks up at Shitty and holds his eye while he moves to undo the button and zip down his fly. He presses the heel of his hand against Shitty’s dick, and Shitty’s breath catches.

 

Kent smiles. “Take those off,” he says, shifting to the side and away from Shitty entirely. He shuffles up on the bed and shucks out of his own jeans but chooses to leave his underwear.

 

Shitty groans. “You’re a tease, man.”

 

Kent laughs, and says, “You’re impatient, ‘t‘s all.” He moves over to the right side of the bed even though it’s huge and there’s plenty of space. He pats the comforter beside him, and Shitty settles. He sits beside Kent, and Kent feels, suddenly, like this should be awkward. It isn’t, or at least _he_ doesn’t think so. But there is something, stuck in the air like humidity before a lightning storm. Shitty is most of the way to hard in his briefs beside him, and so Kent shifts until he’s in front of Shitty, fitting nicely in the space between his long legs.

 

“Comfy?” Kent asks, smiling, and Shitty nods before Kent leans in to kiss him again. Shitty opens his mouth to Kent right away, and Kent is willing to give as good at he gets. They shift against each other, and Shitty settles down against the pillows, on his back. Kent holds himself over him easily, and Kent moves to kiss at Shitty’s jaw, up to his ear and back down along his neck.

 

“Hmm,” Shitty groans, and runs his fingers through Kent’s hair. It’s getting long and unruly with his summer laziness, but he’s glad he hasn’t cut it now, with the way Shitty’s fingers feel against his scalp. Kent grinds his hips down against Shitty, and Shitty responds in kind.  Kent props himself up, hovers above Shitty’s face. He leans down to press their lips together chastely before moving down Shitty’s body. He kisses at his Adam’s apple, the base of his throat, along his collarbone. He moves down Shitty’s chest slowly, running his fingers over the soft definition of his pectorals and abdomen.

 

He looks up at Shitty, and he’s watching Kent with heavy eyes. He slips his fingers under the waistband of Shitty’s briefs and tugs them down until Shitty can kick them off and away. Kent drags his fingers slowly down Shitty’s thighs, and then back up to the jut of his hip.

 

“Kent,” he says, his voice thick, and Kent smiles before he takes Shitty in hand, moving his hand from the tip of his dick and down, slowly, and then back up again. Shitty’s uncut, which isn’t something Kent cares about but still takes into account, and he pulls Shitty’s foreskin up and down with each stroke, gentle because he’s in no rush with it, is trying to tease Shitty just that little bit more.

 

When he starts to shift against the mattress, Kent moves again to take Shitty in his mouth. He licks around the head of his dick before taking more of him in, swallowing around him and relaxing slowly. He doesn’t do this as much as he suspects normal people do, hasn’t slept with nearly as many people as his teammates have, but he still takes pride in it. He was good at it when he was eighteen, and knows he’s only gotten better at it since.

 

Kent doesn’t mind giving head, really, and Shitty is especially enthusiastic, is petting at Kent’s hair and touching his cheek and neck and mumbling abandoned thoughts the whole time. Eventually, he tugs at Kent’s hair with a enough strength that it hurts, and Kent gets it but doesn’t stop, just moves that little bit faster, sucks him down hard, and Shitty comes with a sigh, his thighs tensing and then relaxing slowly. His grip on Kent’s hair hurts until he loosens his fingers, and dumbly pets at the top of Kent’s head.

 

He pulls off of Shitty slowly and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

 

“C’mere,” Shitty says, gesturing blindly for Kent, and Kent shifts against him, moves back up him until they’re face to face. Shitty smiles, crooked and come-dumb, and leans up to kiss Kent, open mouthed and sloppy. “You’re good at that,” he says, when he pulls back.

 

Kent laughs and says, “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Shitty says, and it’s all too sincere. This is already the weirdest thing Kent has ever had to deal with, and it really isn’t helping that Shitty is Kent’s favourite kind of funny. He’s pretty dorky, and he’s not mean with his wit, but he’s good at teasing people and he laughs at his own jokes before he can even finish telling them. And he kissed Kent after he came in Kent’s mouth and Kent--

 

Kent is going to go fucking crazy if he can’t come.

 

He must say something to that effect, because Shitty laughs and says, “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” before moving his hand to the front of Kent’s underwear and squeezing him through the fabric.

 

Kent gasps. Kent leans back a bit, settles his weight across Shitty’s hips. Shitty pulls down waistband of Kent’s briefs and takes Kent’s dick in his hand. Kent tries to concentrate on the way it feels, on how big Shitty’s hand is. It doesn’t take long before he’s thrusting into Shitty’s hand, desperate and buzzing with it.

 

“Fuck,” Kent says, and bites his lip. It’s just a handjob, not a special experience by any means, but Kent can’t help it. Shitty is an overwhelming person--loud and solid and always doing something. It just happens that what he’s doing right now feels pretty amazing; he smells good and his skin is soft.

 

Shitty says, “C’mon,” and rubs the thumb of his free hand against the skin of Kent’s hip.

 

Kent comes with a sigh, leaning forward until he’s practically smothering Shitty.

 

Shitty runs his hands over Kent’s back, soft and slow touches that tickle, but not enough to move away from. Kent kisses at Shitty’s collarbone, and says, “People always say that sex gets worse after marriage.”

 

Kent can feel Shitty’s chest move with the snort of laughter that he gives off. “Idiots,” Shitty says.

 

-

 

The next morning, they get up early--and pack sandwiches into ziploc containers, and they throw those and some protein bars and water bottles into a backpack, and get in the car. They stop to get coffee, but other than that they just drive straight out to Great Basin.

 

Kent likes the desert. It’s not something he ever would have guessed about himself before he moved out here, but he remembers being eighteen and going on some stupid tour with his mom and Lola to see the Hoover Dam and shit. And he remembers how peaceful he felt, that first time, with the whole sky on display. He could scream and it would echo but it also disappeared so fast. He thinks, now, that that’s so much of what life feels like. Time flies. Pain goes away even though it seems like it never will. Eventually, most of the things that make up a life just feel like stories that have happened to somebody else.

 

Kent parks the car and Shitty puts their backpack on over his shoulders. It’s a nice morning, but it’ll be insanely hot later. The sky is clear and bright blue. “Are those vultures?” Shitty points and asks, and Kent laughs.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably turkey vultures? I don’t know how to tell. Those are like, the normal kind, I guess?”

 

“Bird nerd, Kent Parson,” Shitty says, and smiles at Kent, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

 

“What the fuck ever,” Kent says, and then, under his breath, “ _Bird nerd_ , Jesus.” Once he’s sure that they have everything they need, he locks up the car and they make their way to the tour desk. Kent checks them in for their tour, and the girl behind the desk asks if she can take a selfie with him.

 

The tour itself is amazing, and the insides of the caves are unreal.

 

“It’s kinda creepy,” Shitty says. “Freaks me out that there’s so much of the world that we don’t see.”

 

“The world is like, almost all water, dude.”

 

Shitty says, “I _know_ , that’s what I mean. Pretty much all of the deep ocean is undiscovered. There are probably freaky fish down there with, like, three eyes or whatever.”

 

Kent laughs. “I think you’ve watched too much of the Simpsons.”

 

The tour guide explains a lot of stuff about rocks and how the canyons and caves were formed, oceanography or whatever the fuck. Pretty much all of it goes over Kent’s head, but Shitty keeps tilting his head at stuff the guide tells him, and he seems pretty into it. It might be out of Kent’s wheelhouse, but he’s happy to be able to bring Shitty here.

 

After the tour, they find a picnic table and eat the sandwiches they’d packed. Shitty says, “Are there walking trails around here?”

 

“Yeah. I’d probably need to get a map from them,” Kent says, gesturing back towards the tour booth. “But that’d be nice.”

 

“I uh,” Shitty says, and then stops. “I brought weed with me, if that’s something you would want to do.”

 

Kent’s not really surprised, but he asks, “Where’d you get it from?”

 

“Some guy my cousin knows. I picked it up from him when I was here last month.” Kent watches as Shitty cracks his knuckles. He says, “I didn’t know what your, uh, position on it was. I didn’t want to impose or assume or whatever. Sorry for keeping it in your house, I guess.”

 

Kent makes a face. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine, I don’t care.”

 

Shitty says, “So you’ll smoke with me?”

 

Kent shrugs. “I don’t uh, usually--you know.” Shitty nods, and Kent says, “But I could, now. Just, don’t make fun of me. I always cough a lot.”

 

“Means your lungs are healthy,” Shitty says, smiling. “Cool.”

 

Kent knocks his knuckles on the picnic table and says, “I’ll go grab a map, then,” and takes his leave. He feels a bit off, kind of awkward, and he’s not sure why. He can’t tell if Shitty asked about the drugs because Kent plays hockey as a job or because of Jack. He can appreciate where Shitty was coming from either way, trying to be respectful of Kent’s boundaries without prying and without excluding him.

 

When Kent gets back to the table, Shitty’s packed up all their lunch stuff, and is sitting on the tabletop, his feet on the bench. “Ready to go?” Kent asks, and Shitty nods. “We’re going this way,” Kent says, motioning back towards the caves. “We can’t go in them, obviously, but there are trails.”

 

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and then Shitty asks, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

 

Kent thinks about it for a minute and says, “Place and time? Or just a place?”

 

“Hmm,” Shitty hums. “Maybe both. One and then the other.”

 

“If I could go anywhere in the world, right this second? I mean, I kind of can go anywhere, I guess. But. I’ve always wanted to go to, like, Greece or something. French Polynesia. Or Antarctica, maybe. What about you?”

 

Shitty says, “I’ve always wanted to go skydiving, but I think I’m too scared to actually bite the bullet and go for it, so I want to go somewhere where I’d have to, you know? Like it’s so beautiful that you can’t not.”

 

“New Zealand’s popular for that, right?”

 

“Fuck if I know,” Shitty says, kicking at a pebble on the pathway. He says, “If you could travel in time, where would you want to go?”

 

“ _When_ would I want to go, you mean?”

 

“Ha-ha,” Shitty says. “You’re witty, Kent Parson. Anyone ever tell you that?”

 

“Not just a pretty face,” he says, and Shitty’s cheeks go a bit pink.

 

“Seriously though,” Shitty prompts. “I think I want to go to the future, if I’m honest. I want the world to be nicer to itself, for people to stop being such assholes about everything. I want to see a world like that. Where people are kind.”

 

Kent looks out at the landscape around them, the clear water and the hills and hates himself a little bit. He’s the exact kind of person that could never fit into that kind of world--Shitty’s kind of world. It’s not that Kent thinks he’s a bad person, per se. He tries to be good in his own way, tries to pay his good fortune forward, but he’s selfish, too. He can’t make the world any kinder on his own, not really, and when he thinks about what it would mean to go back in time and fix any number of things--

 

“I’d go back in time,” he says.

 

“To before Jack overdosed?” Shitty asks, clearly sensing the weight what that means to Kent.

 

Kent shakes his head. “No,” he says. “To right after he did. I wasn’t there, and I should have been. I’d tell him I was sorry. That he was going to be okay without me anyway.”

 

“Kent,” Shitty says, and Kent wishes that Shitty would reach for him, grab his wrist or his hand or his shoulder. Anything.

 

“It’s okay,” Kent says, shaking his head. “He _is_  anyway. He’s fine.”

 

“He’s not perfect,” Shitty says, and Kent is grateful for him. Infinitely so. He looks like a stoner hipster weirdo most of the time, but he’s a good guy. He’s observant and he’s kind, and he has a nice smile.

 

“No one is,” Kent says. And then, “If you were stranded on a deserted island, which five albums would you wanna have with you?”

 

-

 

They get down into the park, find a small body of water that Kent guesses could be a lake, and they sit on a rock plateau. Shitty takes his shoes off, and Kent puts more sunscreen on his shoulders. Shitty says, “Wanna smoke here?”

 

“Can’t start a fire, okay?” Kent says.

 

“Never,” Shitty says, shaking his head.

 

Kent nods, then, and Shitty rustles around in the backpack until he finds a ziploc bag with two joints in it, and then fishes a lighter out of the small pocket at the front of the bag. He lights up and Kent stares at his own feet, unties his running does and pulls off his socks.

 

“Here, man,” Shitty says, passing the joint to Kent. He inhales, holds his breath, exhales slowly. He coughs a bit, barely, but passes it back to Shitty anyway. They trade it back and forth until it’s almost gone, and then Kent waves Shitty off when he tries to pass it back. “‘m good,” he says.

 

He lays back on the rock, folds his arms behind his head and looks up at the sky. He’s hyper aware of his ankles, at the moment, and he stretches them out, and he’s thinking about how weird it is to have joints at all, knuckles and knees and wrists, when Shitty says, “It’s really beautiful here.”

 

“Yeah,” Kent says, and he has the distinct feeling that he’s way higher than Shitty is.

 

“Fuckin’ hot, though.”

 

“As if Boston doesn’t get hot in the summer,” Kent says.

 

“It’s different,” Shitty says. “It’s dry here.”

 

“Shits,” Kent says, laughing. “We’re in the desert.”

 

Shitty laughs. “I know, _asshole_. I was just saying.”

 

Kent stretches his hand out to pat Shitty on the arm, but misjudges and ends up awkwardly patting his hand on the flat of Shitty’s stomach. Shitty laughs and catches Kent’s hand. He tugs on each of Kent’s fingers individually, softly pulling on them before dropping them back down onto his own stomach. He covers Kent’s hands with his own, and Kent bites back a smile.

 

“It _is_  really nice here. I never come out here.”

 

“Wanna jump in the water?” Shitty asks, tightening his grip on Kent’s hands.

 

“Is it safe?” Kent asks.

 

Shitty shrugs. “I don’t see why not. It’s just water.”

 

“I’m not sure--”

 

“If it weren’t safe, there’d be signs saying so,” Shitty says, and that seems reasonable enough to Kent, and so he sits up.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, tossing his hat off his head before pulling off his t-shirt. “Last one in buys dinner.”

 

Kent takes off, and he gets to the edge of the rock before Shitty does. It’s not a far jump by any means, barely ten feet, but he hesitates. He needs to be careful, his job depends on it.

 

He turns around and Shitty’s right there, except his shorts are gone, and he says, “Snooze you loose, Parse,” and then jumps into the water.

 

“Fuck,” Kent says, and laughs, and then jumps, aiming for as close to where Shitty hit the water as possible.

 

When Kent surfaces, Shitty is laughing. “You suck at this, huh?” He says, treading water but moving closer to Kent until they’re face to face.

 

“I was trying to be careful,” he says, pouting. “I didn’t want to get hurt.”

 

“That’s fair,” Shitty says, with a smirk on his face. “I guess we can’t all rely on our amazing brains for our continued welfare.”

 

“What amazing brain?” Kent says, and Shitty lets out a huge laugh. He pushes at Kent’s shoulder until he’s under the water. Kent resurfaces and says, “I’ve never had sex outside before.”

 

“No?” Shitty asks, and Kent shakes his head.

 

“I can fix that,” Shitty says, smiling, and Kent smiles too.

 

-

 

They get Chipotle for dinner on the way home, but Kent refuses to let Shitty eat in the car. Shitty calls him a fascist soccer mom, and Kent tries to tell him how expensive his car is, and Shitty says, “We’re fighting like an old married couple,” and then bursts out laughing.

 

-

 

When Kent gets home from training on Tuesday afternoon, he finds Shitty lying on the living room floor. “How’s the view from down there?” Kent asks, poking Shitty in the ribs with his socked feet.

 

Shitty groans and says, “I have to start _reading_. For _school_.”

 

“Doesn’t school not start until, like. What? September?”

 

“Yeah,” Shitty says. “The sixth.”

 

“And it’s,” Kent says, “July. What gives.”

 

“It’s the  _end of July_.” Shitty says it like it means anything to Kent, which it doesn’t, really, but he doesn’t know shit about being a law student.

 

“So read,” Kent says, shrugging. “Have you eaten? I’m gonna make food. I was gonna put the game on but I don’t have to, if it’ll distract you. Do you even have school books?” Kent makes his way to the kitchen.

 

“I brought two,” Shitty says, raising his voice so that they can keep talking.. “It was mostly to pretend I was going to do it. But I actually have to start.”

 

“Unfortunate,” Kent says, dry, and Shitty huffs. He joins Kent in the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water and squeezes Kent’s arm in passing. Kent lets him go, and pulls chicken out of the fridge. He’s got corn on the cob, and mushrooms and peppers, so he makes kabobs, marinades the chicken while he cuts up everything else that he needs. He grabs himself a beer from the fridge and another for Shitty, and brings them into the living room on his way to the balcony.

 

He sets Shitty’s beer down on the coffee table and slides open the balcony door. He turns on the grill and leaves the lid shut, and then settles on the couch.

 

“Can I turn on the Jays game?” He asks. “I can keep the volume off.”

 

“Sure.’ Shitty says, not lifting his eyes from his huge textbook.

 

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes until Kent goes to scrape the grill clean. He stays outside to finish their dinner, and catches himself looking in at Shitty, lounging across Kent’s couch. It’s been just over a week, and it’s weird to him, how easily he fits in Kent’s life. It’s not like they’ve been together all the time, but when Kent comes home, Shitty is usually in too. And if he’s not, he always texts Kent about when he’ll be back. And Kent’s enjoying himself, which is maybe even weirder.

 

At first, all he felt was panic. If Shitty hadn’t been willing to wait to file the annulment paperwork, Kent would have gone along with whatever he wanted. He was scared about what it would mean--Shitty is, as far as Kent can tell, Jack’s best friend. What if Shitty had wanted to tell Jack? As far as Kent can tell with that one, he hasn’t, and Kent doesn’t know why. They haven’t talked about when Shitty is going to go home, either, and Kent doesn’t want to bring it up. Doesn’t want to break the sticky-sweet, summer vacation spell that he feels like he’s under. He hasn’t felt this way since he was a kid, and he doesn’t want to lose it. He likes having Shitty here, and of course he’ll have to leave, he’s starting law school in just over a month, but Kent still wants to hold onto this for as long as he can. It’s nice having someone around, someone to come home to, someone to go grocery shopping with.

 

It doesn’t hurt that Kent like sleeping with Shitty, likes the way they’re always laughing when they’re in bed. He’s never had sex with anyone regularly other than Jack, and that was all messy and fumbling and it mattered so much. This is easier, nice in a different way. It’s fun, and it makes Kent feel light, and that’s not something he’s ever had before.

 

He turns the kabobs over on the grill and then watches Kit walk across the living room and meow up at Shitty. Shitty looks away from his books and smiles. He says something to her that Kent can’t hear from the balcony, but it doesn’t really matter. Shitty reaches down with one hand and scoops her up, drops her down on his chest. She shifts and then settles, and Kent bites his lip. He loves her, but she’s not a very nice cat, and she’s never like this with anyone but Kent, and even that’s a rarity.

 

Once their dinner is done, he puts everything onto a plate and takes it back inside. “Food’s done,” he says, and Shitty nods.

 

“Kay,” he says, not looking up from his book.

 

Kent asks, “You want another beer?”

 

“Please,” Shitty says, and Kent goes to the fridge. He pulls his phone out of his pocket on his way back, snaps a photo of Shitty and his law textbook, with Kit sitting on him like she’s settling in for the winter. He smiles, and then sets the beer down, along with little side plates and napkins. He sits on the other end of the couch and Shitty sticks his feet under Kent’s legs.

 

“Thanks,” he says, pressing his toes into the muscle of Kent’s thigh.

 

“Of course,” Kent says.

 

-

 

Kent does a day where he has to use the Aces’ snapchat, and at first it’s kind of weird, but once he gets used to talking to his phone, it’s actually pretty fun. He starts by snapping a video of Kit trying to trip him on the walk from his bed to the shower, and he captions it with _all the world loves a lover_. Then he has Shitty film him driving to the rink while singing along to One Direction with the windows down. Shitty takes his car keys and agrees to come pick Kent up in a few hours.

 

Jamie and Wyatt are in the gym, and he makes fun of them for the fans, and then they make fun of him in turn, and he even posts that. He figures it’s good publicity. They train like they normally would, and then someone from PR comes and takes over the filming, and they get out on their skates for a bit.

 

All in all, it’s a good enough morning, and Kent feels happy, light with it. Wyatt says, “Zip wants to get a gang together, go for dinner. I guess someone he played with at UND is here. You guys in?”

 

Kent looks at Jamie, who shrugs, so Kent says, “Yeah, sure.”

 

Wyatt says, “Is your buddy still here?”

 

“Shitty?” Jamie asks. “What’s his real name? What a fuckin’ nickname.”

 

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Ask him yourself.”

 

-

 

“Wait, your last name’s Knight?” Jamie asks, leaning forward in the booth.

 

“Yes?” Shitty says, clearly as confused as Kent. They’re not so drunk that they should be lost in this conversation, but Kent really has no idea why Jamie said it like that.

 

“So he’s the ace of spades,” Jamie says, smirking like an asshole, pointing to Kent with his beer. “And you’re the Knight in shining armour?”

 

Wyatt laughs and punches Jamie, and Zipchen rolls his eyes. “Sorry they’re stupid, Warns.”

 

“I’m not stupid,” Kent says. “I can’t speak for the rest of the table, but Shitty’s a law student.”

 

“So just that side of the table is stupid,” Warner says.

 

“I hate you all,” Wyatt says.

 

“Where are you studying?” Zipchen asks.

 

Shitty takes a big sip of his beer before he says, “Uh, at Harvard.”

 

“Oh, no shit,” Jamie says. “Fuckin’ sick, dude. Parser never said.”

 

Kent feels self-conscious for no good reason. He feels guilty and like they’re going to figure it out. He doesn’t know how, but he’s only out to Jamie and Forster, and Forster’s not even here.

 

Shitty saves him. “I don’t like to talk about it, really. Makes people,” he does a vague hand gesture. “Like when people find out you guys play in the NHL. They get a look, right?” The guys all nod, and Kent smiles. “It’s like that, but WASP-ier.”

 

“How do you guys know each other?” Warner asks. “Unless you played and I’m just a fuckwit.”

 

Shitty laughs. “I played in college, but I wasn’t that good. Loved it, but wasn’t born with it.”

 

“Shitty went to school with Zimmermann,” Kent says. “That’s how we met.”

 

“Fuckin’ cool,” Warner says. “Small world, I guess.”

 

“Hockey is hockey is hockey is hockey,” Jamie says. “Let’s get another round.”

 

He stands to move towards the bar, and Shitty squeezes at Kent’s leg under the table, there and then gone. Kent turns and looks at him, smiles, and says, “It’s on me,” before fishing out his wallet.

 

-

 

They make out in the cab ride home, and Kent’s too drunk to pray that the cabbie doesn’t recognize him. It’s Vegas, so there’s always someone more famous to see, but it’s not a fear he’ll ever be able to fully shake. Now, though, it’s barely nudging at the back of his head. Not with the way Shitty had left his arm over the back of the booth all night, his fingers moving down to tug at Kent’s hair every once in a while, or to squeeze at his shoulder. Kent has his hands up the back of Shitty’s shirt, and the cab driver clears his throat.

 

Shitty pulls back. “Sorry,” he says, his voice rough, and Kent can feel how pink his cheeks are. He looks down at his hands.

 

The cabbie doesn’t say anything else, and they sit in silence for a few long moments before Shitty reaches over and settles his hand on Kent’s knee. Kent bites at his lip until the driver pulls up outside his building. He pulls two twenties out of his wallet and says, “Keep it,” before jumping out of the cab.

 

“Mister Parson,” the doorman says, and Kent probably would’ve jumped Shitty’s bones if Kevin hadn’t been there.

 

“Hey Kev. Good night?”

 

“Yes, Mister Parson.”

 

“‘S good,” Kent mumbles, and they stumble into the elevator.

 

“Mister Parson,” Shitty says, and Kent rolls his eyes.

 

“Are we gonna talk about this every time he says that?”

 

“I like it,” Shitty says, petulant.

 

“Can’t believe you didn’t take my name,” Kent says, and Shitty laughs.

 

“I’ve made some mistakes” Shitty says, smiling.

 

Kent doesn’t want to talk about it, not really, and so he says, “Imagine if he called us Misters Parson.”

 

“Misters Parson-Knight.”

 

“As if,” Kent says, and the elevator doors ding open. “No child of mine is getting a hyphenated name.”

 

Shitty laughs, and Kent unlocks his front door. He shoves at Shitty’s back, and Shitty stumbles inside, and Kent kisses him to shut him up.

 

-

 

Kent wakes up the next morning with a headache pressing in behind his eyes and with Shitty’s face pressing into his shoulder. It takes him a few seconds to figure out why he’s awake, but then he hears the ringing. He has to lean most of the way out of the bed to reach Shitty’s jeans from the floor, but it’s efficient in that he doesn’t have to actually get up. He pulls his phone of his pocket and answers it without thinking.

 

“Hello?” He says, sleep-garbled.

 

“Uh,” the voice says on the other end. “Is Shitty there?”

 

“Oh,” Kent says, because obviously. “One sec.” He shoves at Shitty’s shoulder. “Shitty,” he says, and shakes his arm. Shitty grunts but doesn’t do much else, and so Kent hisses, again, " _Shitty_. Some chick’s on the phone.”

 

Shitty puts his hand out and takes the phone. “What?” He says, and it’s rude as all hell, and Kent can’t help but smile. He settles back down on his side, and watches Shitty listen to whoever’s on the phone, his eyes still closed.

 

“Lardo says not to call her a chick,” he says, slow, and then he groans and says, “My life choices are not that bad. It’s not that late.” Quiet, and then, “It’s not _noon_.” Shitty opens his eyes then, and pulls the phone away from his ear to check the time even though Lardo, apparently, is talking on the other end. Kent can’t make out what she’s saying.

 

“I’m in Nevada,” Shitty says then. “Vacation.” He shifts on his side and presses his face into Kent’s collarbone. “I was in Cape Cod for a while. Now I’m in Nevada.”

 

He runs his hand along Kent’s side, and it tickles, makes Kent squirm even though he wishes it didn’t. Kent likes Lardo, he thinks. She’s great at beer pong and she’s smart as a whip, and Kent thinks that maybe he has more in common with her than any of Jack’s friends, but--

 

Shitty has always been crazy about her, as long as Kent has known either of them. They’ve always been attached at the hip. And listening to Shitty talk to her...fucking sucks.

 

Everyone’s got a girl. A girl or a drug problem or a school in Boston or a combination thereof, and Kent has hockey and this apartment and his mom, all the way across the continent.

 

He slides out of Shitty’s grip and mouths, “Shower,” to him as he leaves. Better to get out before he loses his composure. He’s hungover, and when he steps under the stream of water, he closes his eyes. It makes him a bit dizzy, but it’s manageable. Another unpleasant part of a mostly pleasant life.  He breathes deeply through his mouth. At the very least, the shower helps him feel a bit more like a human being, which, he figures, is at least a good enough place to start.

 

-

Shitty comes out of the bathroom while Kent’s making toast and coffee. He knocks their hips together, and Kent smiles as he pours milk into a mug.

 

“I gotta go to the rink,” Kent says, and Shitty’s face changes but Kent doesn’t know how, really.

 

“Okay,” he says, watching the toaster. “That’s cool.”

 

“Okay,” Kent says, and he pours his coffee, doesn’t say anything else, and goes.

 

-

 

Kent is sitting on his balcony when Shitty comes in the door. He hears him call Kent’s name, but Kent doesn’t answer, just balances his corona on the banister and looks out at the city, spread out in front of him. Shitty slides the glass door open and says, “There you are.”

 

“Here I am,” Kent says, turning to smile at him.

 

“How was your training session?”

 

“Fine,” Kent says. Shitty comes to stand beside him, leans his arms against the bannister too. “What’d you do today?”

 

“Went to the mob museum,” he says, and Kent laughs. “Don’t make fun of me, it was cool.”

 

“I’m not making fun of you,” Kent says. “I didn’t even say anything.”

 

“You were thinking something mean,” Shitty says, and takes Kent’s beer from his hand and takes a pull from the bottle. He says, “It’s really nice, here.”

 

Kent shrugs. “Same way any big city is nice when the sun’s going down.”

 

Shitty’s brow furrows, and Kent looks away from him. “That’s kinda morose,” he says, slow. He takes another sip of Kent’s beer before giving it back. Kent takes a sip.

 

“Sorry,” Kent says, and Shitty presses their arms together.

 

“There’s a farmer’s market tomorrow. I saw signs. You wanna go?”

 

“How did you find a farmer’s market in Vegas?” Kent says, smiling for the first time all day.

 

Shitty shrugs. “I saw a sign for it, I don’t know! Why’re you looking at me like that?”

 

“You’re such a hipster, Shits,” Kent says. “Not even on purpose. Not in a cool way. You’re just a weirdo who talks to my house plants.”

 

“Jack only owns, like, plaid. He’s a try-hard hipster, though. Took a fuckin’ photo class.”

 

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Kent says laughing.

 

-

 

Shitty’s phone rings again the next morning.

 

“What do you mean why am I in Vegas?” Shitty asks into the phone. “It’s summer. What are _you_  doing?” Kent has his head pillowed on Shitty’s stomach and is playing 2048 and trying not to eavesdrop, but is failing. “Well, I’m sure visiting Canada was great, but--”

 

Shitty’s hand stills in Kent’s hair and he says, “Jack, I swear to fuck--” and then stops. He huffs a breath and says, “You are so dim. Can you just--put Bitty on the phone.”

 

Kent met Bitty, at Samwell. The cute gay kid. Apparently he’s a nightmare on skates, speedy and with great footwork. Kent tries to catalogue anything else he can remember about him, but there’s not much. He was sweet on Jack, but so is everyone.

 

“Bits, yeah, okay, first of all, tell Jack to stop thinking about himself for all of two seconds. Second, it’s so easy, did you try using google? How did you get lost? No, whatever, I don’t need to hear it. Tell me where you are.”

 

Kent quits his game and tosses his phone across the bed, flips over and props himself up on his elbows. He looks up at Shitty, and he’s smiling. He rolls his eyes at Kent and Kent smiles back. Kent traces his fingers along Shitty’s side and then bends down to press a kiss just below his belly button. Shitty’s hand stills against the crown of Kent’s head but doesn’t do anything else, and so Kent keeps at it, presses his mouth to Shitty’s skin, moves lower and lower until he has to pull his boxers (which actually look like they’re Kent’s, now that he’s noticing) away. He pulls them down just enough to be able to free Shitty’s half-hard dick, and then he lets the elastic snap back. Shitty says, “Yeah, okay, did you pass that sad strip mall yet?”

 

Kent pumps his fist over Shitty slowly, works him until he’s fully hard, and then takes him in his mouth. Shitty closes his eyes and says, “Was there a Costco on the left?”

 

Kent takes Shitty in until his nose is pressed into his pubic hair, swallows around him and then pulls up to lick at the head, and then goes back down again. Shitty’s hand tightens in his hair, and he says, “I-Uh, no I’m pretty sure that’s the turn-off. If you see like, an Uno’s you’ve gone too far.”

 

Kent swallows around Shitty, and he says, “I gotta go, Bits, give me a call if you get lost again,” and then hangs up. “Holy fuck,” he says, his hips shifting from side to side. Kent hums low in his throat and Shitty says, “You’re a fuckin’ menace, I swear to--Christ, Kent, I’m--” and comes in Kent’s mouth, with a gasp.

 

Kent pulls of him and wipes at his mouth and smirks.

 

“You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

 

“Ferda,” Kent says, and Shitty laughs.

 

“We oughta get going,” Kent says. “Come jerk me off in the shower so we can go to your stupid farmer’s market.”

 

-

 

Shitty puts one of Kent’s Aces shirts on, and Kent says, “If you did that on purpose I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

 

“Did what on purpose?”

 

“Do you _want_  us to get recognized?”

 

“Us?” Shitty laughs, getting out of the car. “You mean you.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Kent says. “But like. You’re wearing my clothes.”

 

“Tons of people wear your number all the time,” Shitty says.

 

Kent huffs. “Not when I’m, like, hanging out with them.”

 

“No one’s going to say anything,” Shitty says. "Keep your fuckin’ sunglasses on and relax. We’re at the farmer’s market, it’s just strawberries and fruit and homemade soap. No one cares about who you are.” Kent huffs again, and crosses his arms, but Shitty just throws his arm over his shoulder and smiles. “Lighten up, babe. Let’s find some produce.”

 

“Fine,” Kent says, and does his best to relax.

 

It’s a beautiful day, a bit cloudy, but still with breaks of blue sky, and there’s a breeze that’s taking at least a few degrees off the day. They’ve got dinner plans with Lola and Pete later, who they’re picking up from McCarran in a few hours. Shitty smells like Kent’s laundry detergent and sunscreen, and he’s wearing Kent’s clothes.

 

“Dairy and produce last,” Shitty says. “If you want fancy cheese, I’m all for it, but we gotta get it last.”

 

“You’re the boss,” Kent says.

 

After walking around for a while, they get some overpriced, kitschy lemonade and Shitty makes them take a selfie. “Instagram that shit, we look good,” Shitty says, and Kent rolls his eyes but does it.

 

“What do I caption it with?” Kent asks, holding his phone out for Shitty.

 

“Lemon emoji. Orange Boy holding Blue Boy’s hand.”

 

Kent laughs, but he does it anyway.

 

“Let’s find some strawberries.”

 

-

 

They pick Lola and Pete up at the airport at 3:30, and Lola get teary-eyed when she hugs him. “It’s been a month, kiddo, you gotta get it together.”

 

“I missed you,” she says into his shoulder. “Whatever, don’t look at me. Who’s this?” She pulls away from him, and smiles at Shitty, who is shaking Pete’s hand.

 

“This is Sh--”

 

“Brennan,” Shitty says, smiling, and he sticks his hand out for Lola to shake. She smiles and takes his hand. “You must be Lola. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“Only good things, I hope.”

 

Shitty laughs. “Of course.”

 

“That’s good to hear,” she says. “We don’t have any checked bags, so we don’t have to wait around.”

 

Shitty takes her carry on bag from her, somehow, even though she never lets Kent carry anything. Shitty and Pete talk about something on the way back to the car while Lola tells him about the flight. “ _And_ ," she says, and punches him. “I can’t believe you met Britney Spears and didn’t fucking call me right away.”

 

“Sorry,” Kent says, rubbing at his arm. He unlocks the car doors, pops the trunk for Shitty to store Lola and Pete’s bags. “It was really fast,” he says.

 

“She’s not as tall as I thought she would be,” Shitty says, and Lola laughs.

 

-

 

Shitty makes dinner while the three of them catch up, and Lola tells stories about their mom, and talks about looking for job placements. Pete does something with computers that Kent doesn’t really understand, but it means that he’s pretty mobile for work, and they can go wherever Lola needs to go.

 

“You could come out here,” Kent says.

 

“We thought about it,” Pete says.

 

“It’s just not really what we’re looking for, right now. Not that I don’t want to be close to you, but.”

 

“It’s Vegas,” Kent says. “I get it.”

 

“Right,” Lola says, and she sounds sad, so Kent nudges her ankle with his toes.

 

Pete says, “I’m gonna grab another beer. You guys want?”

 

“Please,” Lola says, and Kent nods and says, “No thanks, I’m gonna have wine with dinner.”

 

The second Pete’s gone, Lola sits up. “So what’s the deal with him?”

 

Kent shrugs. “I know him through Jack,” he says, because it might tell her more about it than he could really explain otherwise.

 

“He go to school with him?” Kent nods, and Lola says, “He’s _cute_. Those green eyes. All that enthusiasm. What’s he do?”

 

“Goes to Harvard Law,” Kent says, feeling proud.

 

“Kenny,” she says, smiling. “Way to go.” She winks at him. He blushes, and shrugs a bit.

 

“It’s not what you th--”

 

“It’s fine, Kenny, c’mon. He seems nice. You seem happy.”

 

“He lives in Boston,” Kent says. “It’s not serious. It’s...complicated.”

 

“Well,” she says, scooting her chair closer to his on the balcony. “You let me meet him. That’s gotta count for something. And who cares if it’s messy or whatever. You seem lighter. A bit of what you fancy does you good, etcetera etcetera.”

 

Kent smiles, and Pete slides the door open. “Brennan said food in five,” he says, taking his seat again. He passes Lola her beer and says, “He seems cool. He’s not a hockey player, huh?”

 

“He played NCAA,” Kent says.

 

“He’s in law school,” Lola says. “Out east. He’s close to us. Boston.”

 

“Cool,” Pete says. “Wanna go inside?”

 

“I should help him,” Kent says. “You guys stay. Come in a couple minutes.”

 

Kent leaves them on the balcony, leaves the sliding door open a bit so that Kit can slip out and twist between Pete’s feet. Kent finds Shitty setting the table with plates, and Kent’s not sure if they’ve eaten a single meal at this table. He only uses it when people are over, and he hasn’t considered Shitty to be a guest…pretty much ever.

 

“I’ll grab cutlery,” he says. He slips into the kitchen and gets forks and knives, the corkscrew and the bottle of red they bought on the way to the airport. He passes the wine to Shitty and sets out the cutlery. He says, “They like you,” and Shitty smiles.

 

“You and Lola are close, hey?”

 

“Yeah,” Kent says. “It sounds dumb but. I don’t know. We’re kind of assholes, but we get each other. It works for us.”

 

“I think you both just think too much,” Shitty says. “All the time. Also, you’re a family of criers, how did I not realize?”

 

“We are not,” Kent says.

 

“You cried watching The X-Factor, Kent.”

 

“Pour me my wine,” Kent says, and then, “Why’d you introduce yourself as Brennan? I’m going to have to call you that all night.”

 

“It is my name, you know.” Shitty holds a full glass of wine out for Kent, and Kent takes it, brushes their fingers together in the exchange. Shitty smiles softly.

 

“Bren works as a nickname, I guess. I can work with that.”

 

“Oh, Christ,” Shitty says.

 

“Kenny and Brenny.” Shitty groans at that, and Kent says, “You made your bed, dude.”

 

Lola and Pete come in from the balcony, and Lola says, “This looks amazing.”

 

“I lived in a frat house for four years, so please don’t get your hopes too high.”

 

They sit and pass around food until they settle, and the food is great, although Kent had no doubt that it would be. There’s two kinds of salad, one with a bunch of berries that they bought from the farmer’s market, which Kent explains.

 

“I’ve lived here for seven years and never knew it was there,” he says.

 

“You wouldn’t know shit if it hit you in the face, though, so that’s not really saying much.”

 

Shitty laughs, and Kent huffs, but smiles. He leans back in his chair and rests his hand on the back of Shitty’s chair. They start talking about some movie that Kent hasn’t seen, and Pete and Shitty both get riled up about it, and Lola rolls her eyes at Kent across the table.

 

Kent thinks, for the first time in his life, he feels like they’re both adults, like they’re going to make it. That they passed from the terror of being young into normalcy, and he never even noticed.

 

“What else are you guys doing this weekend?” Kent asks. He takes a big sip of his wine.

 

“We wanted to go to a Cirque show,” Lola says. “But, uh. We actually--We mostly really came here to. Well.”

 

“We’re getting married,” Pete says, fast.

 

“Oh,” Kent says, and then smiles. “Are you getting married, um. Like, here? This week?”

 

“Christ, no,” Lola laughs, and Kent bites down on his cheek. “But I wanted to ask you if you’d maybe be willing to walk me down the aisle.”

 

“Oh,” Kent says, and then he does get teary-eyed. He stands up and moves around the table to hug her. “Fuck, yeah, Lo, of course. Congrats, Bug.”

 

“Thanks,” she says, and Kent can hear the tears in her voice, too.

 

Kent hears Shitty congratulate Pete, but he just squeezes Lola tighter. She hugs him back, her fingers pressed into his back, and she says, “Love you, Kenny.”

 

“You too, kiddo,” he says, and finally pulls back. He rubs his hands under his eyes and sits back down. “Not a word,” he says to Shitty, who laughs.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, and then raises his wine glass. “Congrats, guys, for real.”

 

-

 

After dinner, Lola and Pete go up to the pool. Shitty and Kent clean up, and Kent focuses on rising off the dishes while Shitty packs up leftovers. “You’re quiet,” Shitty says, and touches Kent’s hip.

 

“Sorry,” Kent says. “Crazy day, I guess.”

 

“Yeah,” Shitty says, finishing off his glass of wine before filling Kent’s and his own with the rest of the bottle. He loads dishes into the dishwasher, and closes it up. “Leave the rest, c’mon. It’ll be here in the morning.” He tugs on Kent’s hand and pulls him towards the bathroom.

 

He leaves their wine glasses on the counter and then pulls Kent’s shirt over his head before going for his own. Kent can take a hint, and so he strips out of his jeans and socks while Shitty turns on the tap and runs the water.

 

Shitty motions for Kent to step into the shower, so he does. Shitty follows him in, and it only takes a second for Kent to get it. He feels better almost instantly, the way everything in the world falls away. Shitty rubs shampoo into his hair, keeps the soap out of his eyes and everything, and all Kent does is hold onto him, hands at his waist.

 

Kent heaves a breath, and Shitty says, “We’re okay,” into the skin of Kent's cheek. Kent closes his eyes and lets his hands snake around Shitty’s back. They stand there like that for a few minutes, pressed together and breathing, and Kent can’t process how grateful it is. He feels like a weight was lifted off his chest, but he hadn’t even known it was there until it suddenly wasn’t.

 

Eventually, Shitty moves. He presses Kent’s overpriced LUSH body wash into Kent’s hands, and washes his own hair. Kent’s shower is big, but it’s still an intimate experience, showering for showering’s sake.

 

Shitty turns off the water and they both step out of the shower. Kent passes Shitty his towel from the rack, and the pulls his own down. He does a perfunctory job of drying himself off before opening the door and shuffling to his bed. He pulls the duvet back, and Shitty copies him, and they crawl under it on opposite sides.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Shitty asks, his face soft against the pillow under his cheek.

 

Kent nods, barely a movement at all. Shitty shifts until they’re nose to nose, and Kent scoots closer, tangles their legs together and presses one hand flat to Shitty’s chest, the other soft against his back.

 

When their lips meet, it feels heavy. It feels like a dam bursting. Kent could cry with it. They’re both slow in their movements, but Kent still feels desperate. He wants to feel it all, doesn’t want to forget a single second of it. He bites at Shitty’s lip, and Shitty moans into Kent’s mouth.

 

Through this whole thing, Kent can’t believe it took this long for this to happen. He knew he was a total goner on Shitty from the very first second; even if he can’t remember marrying him, he can imagine what it was that made him want to do it. He doesn’t know how it happened, doesn’t know who said what to spur it into action, but he can imagine the feeling, light and happy and giddy. He can imagine the affection he felt, the joy, the unadulterated rush of being alive.

 

But this is first time since it all began where Kent’s been afraid. Not of Shitty, but of what’s going to happen when it goes away. For the first time, they aren’t laughing into each other’s skin, aren’t smiling as much as they’re kissing. This is just desperation, Kent clutching at Shitty’s arms like a lifeline. He’s barely breathing, and he has to force himself to pull back to catch his breath when he realizes.

 

Shitty licks his lips, his eyes heavy. “I want to fuck you,” he says, and Kent nods. “Say yes,” Shitty says, and Kent presses his nose into Shitty’s cheek.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

Shitty kisses him again, misses his mouth but settles for his jaw, moves down towards Kent’s neck. He rolls Kent onto his back and supports himself above Kent’s body. Kent looks up at him and wants to smile but doesn’t know how.

 

Instead, he touches his hand to Shitty’s cheek before moving it back into Shitty’s hair. “There’s lube in the bedside table,” Kent says, and it breaks some of the tension, because Shitty does smile then, nods and says, “I know,” before moving for it.

 

Shitty stops and says, “Should I, uh--”

 

“No,” Kent says. Kent hasn’t been fucking anyone else. He doesn’t think Shitty has, either. Is pretty positive of that, actually. They’re married. If there was ever a time to not use a condom, marriage has got to be it.

 

“Okay,” Shitty says, and then he moves down the bed and settles between Kent’s legs. This has never been Kent’s favourite part of sex, but Shitty is good at it, has beautiful hands and is good at reading people, and when he touches Kent, Kent is able to relax in a way he usually struggles to. It feels good, the stretch and the pressure. Shitty takes his time, one finger and then two, and he only adds a third when Kent starts to whine.

 

Shitty runs his free hand up and down Kent’s thigh, and Kent wants to touch his own dick but doesn’t, wants to wait it out. Wants to want to come so bad it could kill him.

 

When Shitty pulls his fingers out, Kent keens, but it’s only a second before he’s lining himself up and pushing in. “Fuck,” Kent says, and Shitty pushes in all the way, and Kent breathes into the crook of his neck.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Shitty says, and Kent bites at his shoulder.

 

“Move,” he whispers, and Shitty nods.

 

They establish a slow rhythm, a murderous push and pull, and Kent can’t concentrate on everything he wishes he could. He grabs Shitty’s face between his hands and kisses him, sloppy and uncoordinated, and Shitty kisses him back.

 

Shitty pulls back to look Kent in the eye, and he stares at him for a long moment, gets a rhythm going, pumping in and out of Kent at the same, slow, steady pace. When he hits Kent’s prostate, Kent gasps, his hands going tight around Shitty’s biceps. He does it again, a slower drag, and Kent says, “Oh,” with a exhale of breath.

 

Shitty presses his face into Kent’s neck, and Kent holds onto the back of his head. “C’mon,” Shitty says.

 

Kent gasps and comes, his eyes held shut, and he shakes with it, his toes curled and his breath coming heavy. Shitty thrusts into him a few more times before he comes too, pressed against Kent tightly. He groans into Kent’s shoulder, and Kent drags his fingers down Shitty’s back until he moves. He pulls out of Kent slowly, and says, “I’ll be right back.”

 

He comes back into Kent’s room with a warm washcloth, and he wipes Kent down gently before tossing it towards the hamper in the corner.

 

He curls up beside Kent, and says, “I’m not complaining, but,” he moves so that he and Kent are sharing one pillow. Kent, staring at the ceiling, can feel Shitty looking at the side of his face. “What was that about?”

 

Kent closes his eyes. “My little sister is getting married before me,” he says.

 

“Uh,” Shitty says. “I hate to break it to you, Kent, but we’ve been married since July.”

 

“You know what I mean,” Kent says. She gets to have a normal life. Kent is never going to have that. He’s been living a fantasy life for the last thirty-five days, and Shitty has to go back to Cambridge in a few days if he wants to be ready for his classes to start.

 

“I don’t know if I do,” Shitty whispers, and Kent rolls onto his side and closes his eyes.

 

-

 

When Kent wakes up, Shitty is sitting up in bed, doing something on his phone.

 

“Hey,” Kent says, soft, and Shitty looks up at him.

 

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds tentative. Shy, even. Kent hates it.

 

He slides over on the bed until he can rest his head on Shitty’s thigh. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

 

“What?” Shitty asks. “That we got married while we were drunk?”

 

Kent shrugs. “I guess. That you had to come out here.”

 

“I don’t think,” Shitty says, carting his fingers through Kent’s hair, “That the reason why I came out here is as important as the reason why I stayed.”

 

Kent says, “I’m still sorry.”

 

Shitty sighs. “Ah, Kent, c’mon. A problem halved is a problem shared. It’s not a bad life. I had a fun time.”

 

Kent nods against Shitty’s leg again and then says, “We don’t even have a wedding photo.”

 

-

 

Kent drops Shitty off at McCarran at seven in the morning on Wednesday.

 

“I’ll have the paperwork with me when we come out to play the Bruins on the tenth,” he says as Shitty undoes his seatbelt.

 

“Okay,” Shitty says, and Kent gets out of the car even though they’re in a no-stop zone. He opens the trunk and grabs Shitty’s bag for him.  “I guess I’ll see you, then,” Shitty says, shouldering his bag.

 

Kent wants to kiss him, wants to hug him, wants to fix whatever it is that he broke. Thirty-five days. That’s long they made it, from the second Kent phoned Shitty to when everything fell apart. Thirty five days between when the sky fell and Jesus wept to this, Kent standing in front of Shitty with no way of going back.

 

Kent tilts his head to the side and gives Shitty a sad smile. “What happens in Vegas, right?”

 

-

 

They win their first preseason game, and then drop the next two, and then cream the Schooners. It doesn’t count for shit, and Kent can’t be bothered to give a fuck. September slips away.

 

-

 

They fly into Logan in the middle of the night. Kent sits beside Jamie the whole way there, just like he always does. “Is Shitty coming to the game?” Jamie asks him as they’re descending. “It was fun hanging out with him.”

 

“I don’t know,” Kent says, because that’s true. He doesn’t know anything, other than that the manila envelope of paperwork that’s jammed into his carry-on is the heaviest piece of luggage he’s ever carried.

 

-

 

Shitty’s apartment is so heartbreakingly normal that Kent wants to cry. Or punch someone. Punch Shitty, maybe.

 

Kent is standing in the middle of his living room, their annulment papers in his hand, waiting for Shitty to finish getting dressed or something.

 

“So,” Shitty says. “Game tonight, you ready?”

 

“As ready as I ever am,” Kent says. Compared to this, hockey is nothing. He has butterflies and his palms are sweaty and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

 

“I found something,” Shitty says. “On my flight home. I thought about sending it to you, but then I forgot.”

 

He flips through his phone for a second, and then holds it up to Kent. It’s a picture of them, clearly one they took themselves, their faces squished to fit into the frame. Between them in the photo is a surprisingly canny Elvis impersonator. A laugh burst out of Kent, and he says, “You thought we’d done karaoke.”

 

“But we got married by Elvis,” Shitty says.

 

“What song did you think it was? _Love Me Tender_?”

 

Shitty smiles and shakes his head. “ _Can’t Help Falling In Love With You_ ,” he says, and looks down at his hands.

 

Kent swallows past the lump in his throat and says, “I brought the papers.”

 

“I know,” Shitty says, pointing to Kent’s hand. “Do you remember, the first night, in the cab?”

 

Kent shakes his head. “Not really.”

 

“I said that I wasn’t Jack, and you said you knew that. Was that true?”

 

Kent looks away from him. Considers how heavy of a question that must be, for Shitty. “I’m not fucked up about Jack,” Kent says, and Shitty scoffs. “Or, okay, I am, but now how you think. I miss him and I hate how things are. We’re never going to be friends the way you and he are friends. But I’m fucked up about him because he almost died and he blames me for part of that.” He looks at Shitty, then, and says, “I just want to have a normal life. That’s what’s fucked up about me. I want to be happy, and I want to maybe have a kid, and I wanted to get married when it meant something--”

 

“Did it mean anything to you?”

 

“When it happened?” Kent asks, and Shitty doesn’t move. “Not when it happened. But, you found that photo. That matters to me now.”

 

He thinks about why Shitty would have been looking for it, thinks about how much of an asshole he was, how the last thing he said to Shitty before he left was  _what happens in Vegas_ , like it was a joke. Like it meant nothing.

 

But it’s like Shitty said; it was never that he flew out to Vegas in the first place. It was that he stayed. Shitty’s a good person, and Kent doesn’t deserve him. Never could, really. Shitty throws himself into everything wholeheartedly, head first and with his heart full.

 

Kent’s never been like that. He thinks about waiting for Shitty to jump into the lake at Great Basin, needing to know if it was safe. You snooze, you lose is right.

 

Kent tosses the envelope down on the coffee table. “Sign them,” Kent says. “I can come get them after the game.”

 

Kent turns to go, and Shitty says, “Kent.”

 

Kent turns and raises his eyebrow at Shitty, and Shitty asks, “Would you like to go for a drink, sometime?”

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> \+ i did literally zero research about food places in vegas, but the ice cream place they went to is based on salt and straw, which can be found in portland, or.
> 
> \+ there is a deleted scene in my heart where, when the aces find out kent and shitty are married, they take kent to the live magic mike mansion and buy him a bunch of lap dances or whatever...that happens. 
> 
> \+ shitty ain't ever signing those papers


End file.
